Poetry by Vladimir Fischer
Photo by K8
“those floors and countless doors…”
I feel like I’m melting,
turning into the sour grape
a spoiled wine that’s left alone
on the edge of the dying city lights.
I need no pity
my label bears an established name
with royal crests and loyal mounts
standing proudly on the side.
Yet, this crest,
however beautiful, good looking
is not created by my hands
or my sweat and time that’s always running out.
My ancestors – bricklayers,
laid foundations long ago,
those floors and countless doors,
this mansion, filled with passion for hard work,
and charm accompanying the labor.
It’s difficult for me;
for I am melting
hoping for extension
of my ancestral employment.
Poetry by Vladimir Fischer
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