A picture at the bottom of an old wallet
The river circles grander than a nimbus.
Her past: passed crossroads, memories play.
Her locks, her voice, her touch – a chorus
Sonorous, that wants to sing “Rejoice!”
And yet, to joy, no ode can I master.
For in her memories - I am a fleeting thought.
Goodnight to you - taut breasts of alabaster.
Свидетельство о публикации №104092700634