Feeling

And doubt spreads its parallels,
And sorrow will leave a drop on the cheek,
And the nets of anger are not far,
They will ignite a flame in the fiery hand,
That risk like a submarine,
Sometimes sinking, sometimes resurfacing,
And the darkness that fills the evening,
That is the gray-gray antiquity,
And intuition, this strange feeling,
No one has yet found the key to it,
But how that premonition works,
Where to go, and where to wait for the sword?
And from despair again the downpour pours,
And in the puddles hope hides somewhere,
Making that small, rural path into the mud,
Which the child has already forgotten.