Thus hushing, dayling, boring days
Behind my face into my space.
Theese trilling, counting, swaying things
Fall out on you, fall out on me.
My crying, trambling, sandness eyes
Right here’re cutting whirlwind twise.
And all I can do with it
Just lie on top of summer-sweet .
They – noising, ‘noying selfish creatures,
They acking, sleeping, roaring features.
And every hushing, dayling day
They take the pease of soul again.
Nothing
© Copyright: Елизавета Маковея, 2007
Свидетельство о публикации №107122600199
Свидетельство о публикации №107122600199
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