The Lark

Terrible poems, a scathing mind. 

I know no quiet when I write. The pond

is perturbed continuously

by the arrogant breeze of the attempt. 

 

But with Music, possibly, I shall soar

out of myself, as might the Lark

climb, wingèd, out of her abode

and fly back Home. 

10/14/2016

Richmond

Please reload

  • patreon_logo_black
  • Instagram - Black Circle

Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2018

atazargarof@gmail.com

BC, Canada