Sing
Of the stars and of the moon,
Of the winds above a dune,
Tell me.
Sing
Of the heroes from the past,
Of the love that had surpassed
A king.
Make me hear the sound of grinding steel,
Make me feel like nothing else is real,
In rain and mud,
Sing me a song about flesh and blood.
Sing
Of the pain and of the fear,
Of the friends that weren’t near,
Tell me.
Sing
Of the lies precisely groomed,
Of the memories that wound
Like sting.
Make me hear the sound of grinding steel,
Make me feel like nothing else is real,
In rain and mud,
Sing me a song about flesh and blood.
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Author:
Victor Bolshov (
Offline) - Published: November 3rd, 2025 04:27
- Comment from author about the poem: It's only real when it fascinates, and tenders, and hurts, and burns.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
In this write is the encouragement of poetry itself for it is those emotions and pain that poetry is born. If not from sweat, blood, pain the extasy of love what would poetry be. Well done
Thank you my friend!
You are most welcome
Victor, I could feel every clash and tremor in this. The refrain binds it all...pain, memory, and something sacred in the dirt. It lingers long after reading. Beautifully powerful write, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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