Your soul deserted the place where it was
The box of your guts as a matter of course
Became pretty empty as though it is hole
Where all the disgusting garbage is thrown
You try to pull yourself together
But you can’t do it ‘til you’re dead
Do you remember what’s the weather
When we first met?
It was shining of the lights
On the inquisition fires
Crowds of witches and betrayers
Were burned down without prayers
You reached me there and took aside
And said that it’s funny to hide
From persecutors, from the law
Who don’t let criminals withdraw
So from that time we’ve been acquainted
And you pretend to be my friend
But actually the thing you’ve wanted -
To run the blade over my hand
27 November 2004
Your soul deserted the place where it was...
© Copyright: Ольга Влади, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105062900623
Свидетельство о публикации №105062900623
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