Morning

​

Victorious, festive, bright,

Morning comes into its own,

Lighting every morning

With colors from turquoise to pearl.

 

So that the bird chirping awakens,

Filling the air with sounds of music.

Leaves rustle in the forest,

And take the owls on vacation.

 

What kind of love needed a splash,

What kind of poet should Nature be,

So that there is silence and shine

Poured onto the earth at dawn.

 

But what’s the secret? Well there is none,

And the night will disappear again.

Wiseley, leaving dawn-

With colors of turquoise and pearl.

​

Anna Nemenov

- In Memory of my grandfather, Boris Nemenov