Valery Kourinsky

02.10.99

SONNET ENDED BY NETTLE

The night was playing Chopin,
and a pain was almost sweet,
when time was by memory lit
and was the senses robbing

from the stars, from the curves of droppy
moments, with windows on the street,
where soundlessly destiny 's split
by the steps of personalized enthropy.

O. chrystallization of the dreams!
How wonderful sometime a fossil gleams
in somber strange environmental

halfplay-halftragedy-halflife.
And sparks of past my soul further drive,
and I again can boldly grasp the nettle.