The Soul is a White Swan
A moonless night,
A street lamp flickers
Through the thick fog.
On a nearby lake,
The last song of a dying bird,
The clock strikes midnight.
The Soul is a White Swan,
The hands of an old wall clock have coincided.
Twelve strikes,
Announces midnight.
A deadly feeling of cold
Pervades every pore,
Raindrops pound on the windows, carried By the wind.
Spooky cold, cruel
Interrupted dreams, restlessness.
The song has died down, in the grave Silence the Soul is a White Swan…
©️ ® Melita Mely Ratković
