My breath tells me its pain
And its fear ‘f artificial smiles,
It seems that my cry tries in vain
To awake warmth among stony styles
Of the behavior of a cynic play,
Where dialogues shut down the heart,
The mimic’s well-trained, and so you may
Win the audience, and they’ll shout: “Smart!”
I know how t’ introduce, and how t’ give farewells,
And announce the show goes on,
But why it so desperately smells
Of spoilt meat of hearts, which life is gone.
…They say: “You’ll reach your future up-grades,
You’ll have a degree, you’ll open many doors.”
But why I feel my breath it hates,
And it’s much sweeter to wash the floors.
The cold of forgery
© Copyright: Владимир Васильков, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105072901577
Свидетельство о публикации №105072901577
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