And here is again grafomanstvuyu. Mood perishing too reported. Spleen.
The moth a carefree my,
Not fly fly fly on vivid light.
Not rush consume, wait —
From ceasefire'll curse there is no.
Not reach out from of darkness are apparent to wide,
Not call an angry stray death.
There not the sun, only a candle.
It you not heat up.
Useless conversation,
Are useless all words.
Around in the air pattern,
Thin Wings laces.
Whispering, an eternity an enticing,
Sorrow messenger — Serafin.
“— Don’t be sad for me —
All someday're gonna burn up. ”
Not withdraw from years,
All, that be ruled — the disobedient by.
From unfulfilled dreams,
Only ashes on the hands of.
“Don’t be sad about me. ”
Ray candles shivers slightly.
On zaplakannom-year window,
Is melting away shadow from a moth.
Last edited by Anita (Jan 18 2016 11:36:36)
