Дмитрий Алёхин – 400 Poems (страница 7)

Letting Go

I held it tight with all my might,

A thing I thought I needed right.

But my hand got sore, my arm got tired,

The thing I held was not required.

I opened up, I let it fall,

It did not matter after all.

The space it left is now so wide,

A place for air, a place to hide.

The Final Page

This is the end, or just a pause,

A moment for a small applause.

The book is full, the ink is dry,

I close the cover with a sigh.

But words live on inside the mind,

For anyone who wants to find.

A simple poem, a quiet glow,

A place to rest, a place to grow.

The Candle Flame

A tiny flame upon the shelf,

It dances only for itself.

It bends and sways but does not fall,

A quiet light to warm us all.

I watch it flicker, watch it glow,

It teaches me what I should know:

That even small and fragile things,

Can hold the dark and grow their wings.

The Sidewalk Crack

A crack upon the concrete grey,

A little crack, a common way.

But from that crack, a flower grows,

A purple bloom, a stem that knows.

It does not ask for better ground,

It makes its home where it was found.

A lesson there for you and me:

To bloom right where we're meant to be.

The Spare Key

I hide a key beneath the stone,

For when I feel too tired, alone.

It waits for me, so cold, so still,

A little promise, a little will.

One day I'll use it, maybe soon,

To open up a brand new room.

But for today, it stays in place,

A hidden hope, a quiet grace.

Counting Stars

I lie outside when night is deep,

And count the stars I see and keep.

One for hope, and one for love,

One for all the dreams above.

I lose the count around fifteen,

The sky becomes a silver scene.

But that is fine, I do not need,

To count them all, I just succeed.

The Old Tree

There is a tree upon the hill,

So old, so wide, so very still.

It saw my father when was young,

It heard the songs his mother sung.

I sit beneath its heavy arms,

Protected from the world's alarms.

Some things are strong and do not flee,

Like this old tree, like this old tree.

A Glass of Water

A glass so clear, the water cold,