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.



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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

BC, Canada