My Century

The nature keeps its secret laws.
An iron angel is in a cradle.
Time's flowing down into a ladle.
The century took in space its course.

A hand bends boldly a face of clock.
Eternity delivers an artist.
To injured knees a plantain harvest.
As if a stick threatens with a knock.

And bows its head unhappy time
of blind men frozen in the Sun.
King for a day is in the fun.
The people’s eyes are all in rime.

In time the dark comes on threshold.
By some the world's turned inside out.
For a toothless to swallow's allowed
And sweet meat all the vices hold.

God catches angel with a net,
but latter's not a butterfly.
Wind's consonant with rebel's cry,
a tear-stained handkerchief is wet.

Copyright © Oleg Borisov