He smells her hair,
He holds his place.
It's so unfair,
This lovely face.
There's no broken heart
For him to mend.
This is the part
That doesn't end.
A languid limb
Of hers reclines;
For beauty’s hymn
Sorrow defines.
Of all the ways pain can name,
This is the one he would not claim.
The first two stanzas of this poem were written as a group effort at English club at K.I.M.E.P. recently and are the combined efforts of several people, including Nurmerey Shakhanova and Akerke Almanova. The last stanza and the couplet I wrote subsequently and the poem you have just read is the result. I want to say thank you to those who participated in the creation of this sonnet.
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2 comments:
There's a tinge of sadness, and yet there's also an unmistakable tenderness in the expression of emotion, in the roundabout way of poetry. ;) Loved the ending.
Missed you, Russell. (hug)
S.L. Corsua, I'm delighted to see you! I have missed you too, my sweet. Thanks for those wonderful words and *BIG HUGS* back at you!
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