Looking out my window one night last Winter
What waits outside my door?
A growling,throaty,rumbling sound
The wind and nothing more?
The tapping of the blowing snow
Against the window panes
The clinking of some spectral being
As moves about in chains?
Before too long I recognize
The crunching of the snow
As heavy footsteps make their way
Where is it that they go?
When looking out.(at last I did)
Through mist and icy haze I see
A frozen specter at the tree
With bluish hands it beckons me
Within the wind I heard my name
Sound of crying,sound of pain
Helpless ones as they are slain
Every year,the same!The same!
Whence came this vision to my head?
What mission does it keep?
Spewed from out an earthen bowel
Imposed upon my sleep
When just beyond that grove,that mist
An ice-clad woman,(very tall)
With frosty garment,crystal hair
She hails me with a cackle-call
I knew not why she came to me
In deepest Winters' cold
Is she some omen,or portent?
With story to be told?
I care not what assemblage forms
And calls me to come out
The rum is gone,I'm off to bed
They'll have to do without
Poetry by vladimir turmanev
Read 953 times
Written on 2011-07-15 at 10:31
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Visitors At My Window
What sound is this,in Winters' night?What waits outside my door?
A growling,throaty,rumbling sound
The wind and nothing more?
The tapping of the blowing snow
Against the window panes
The clinking of some spectral being
As moves about in chains?
Before too long I recognize
The crunching of the snow
As heavy footsteps make their way
Where is it that they go?
When looking out.(at last I did)
Through mist and icy haze I see
A frozen specter at the tree
With bluish hands it beckons me
Within the wind I heard my name
Sound of crying,sound of pain
Helpless ones as they are slain
Every year,the same!The same!
Whence came this vision to my head?
What mission does it keep?
Spewed from out an earthen bowel
Imposed upon my sleep
When just beyond that grove,that mist
An ice-clad woman,(very tall)
With frosty garment,crystal hair
She hails me with a cackle-call
I knew not why she came to me
In deepest Winters' cold
Is she some omen,or portent?
With story to be told?
I care not what assemblage forms
And calls me to come out
The rum is gone,I'm off to bed
They'll have to do without
Poetry by vladimir turmanev
Read 953 times
Written on 2011-07-15 at 10:31
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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