Something breaks down in the clock

Something breaks down in the clock.
It seems the time doesn’t move at all.
My heart is turned in to a painful rock.
My wife’s face is white as a wall.

Our little daughter is in a surgery room,
It’s not a clock – our lives don’t move,
We don’t see how outside summer blooms
I feel how the tear cuts on my cheek a deep groove.

We are sure, that everything will be fine,
We just don’t have another choice.
I am screaming inside: ‘’God, please, save the daughter of mine’’
And I hear the same being asked by my wife’s voice.

Аркадий Шляпинтох, 2009

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 1275 № 74039 от 30.10.2009

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