The decorations’ shining
Is lighting up the room
The woman’s soul is brightening
So clear for the doom.
Her soul is made of fire,
It lit the candle up
And like the words of liar
If flows in ardent blood.
This woman – superfluous
She has no place to go,
And like abandoned moors
Became her poor soul.
The clock has stopped and silence
Has wrapped the darkness up
And woman, feeling violence,
Has solved herself to stab.
Her beauty made the human
Obedient like a child…
The world that killed this woman
Has always been too wild.
To Merlin
© Copyright: Селиванова Татьяна, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104011000905
Свидетельство о публикации №104011000905
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