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The Other Poem

Finally, I remembered to get the other poem off the refrigerator. Hard work that.

"The Little Golden Cloud"
Mikhail Lermontov (1814-1841)

The little golden cloud spent the night
On the breast of the great cliff

Early next morning she took to her way,

Into the azure, merrily playing;

But moist tracks remain in the wrinkles

of the ancient stone.

Lonely, He stands, reflecting deeply,

And softly he weeps in the wilderness

1 comment:

  1. Thanks for all your great comments at my blog this morning! If you and I were any more alike, we would be the same person. heh. :) Blessings, Debra