This time and space through all the years
Is difficult to stand existent way…
There’s no logic, rules, but only tears
That’s always able to come back some day.
And words can’t voice I feel at heart
If I’d turn out and clean my books –
The anapaest, iambes, any written part
Is like Procrustean bed in dangerous nook.
What love is – diagnosis or doom?
It seems like syndrome. I won’t portray.
I feel like spado, there’s no room
For things that should be here to stay.
It can't be helped when my uncertain soul
Gives me occasion to feel bad and low,
It can't be helped when I am in a hole,
There’s no one to share with, you know…
This time and space through all the years...
© Copyright: Максим Фомин, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105052400312
Свидетельство о публикации №105052400312
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