690
Ïîáåäà îïàçäûâàåò –
Åå ïðîòÿãèâàþò, êîãäà ãóáû –
Òðîíóòûå ìîðîçîì –
Óæå íå â ñèëàõ âçÿòü –
Êàê ñëàäêî áûëî áû îòâåäàòü
Õîòü êðîøêó –
Íî Áîã íå ëþáèò äåëèòüñÿ –
Åãî ñòîë òàê âûñîê –
Íå äîñòàòü, êàê íè òÿíèñü –
Êðîõ - ìàëåíüêèì ðòàì –
Âèøåí – äðîçäàì –
Çîëîòîé çàâòðàê îðëà óáèâàåò èõ –
Ñëûøèò ëè Áîã âîðîáüåâ,
Ïîãèáàþùèõ áåç ëþáâè –
13 - 22.12.2015
690
Victory comes late —
And is held low to freezing lips —
Too rapt with frost
To take it —
How sweet it would have tasted —
Just a Drop —
Was God so economical?
His Table's spread too high for Us —
Unless We dine on tiptoe —
Crumbs — fit such little mouths —
Cherries — suit Robbins —
The Eagle's Golden Breakfast strangles — Them —
God keep His Oath to Sparrows —
Who of little Love — know how to starve —