Hiding in a dark cellar,
And working day and night
This mysterious dweller
Is absorbed by his rite.
The story isn't fairy-tale,
No wonders, only hope
He's loosing strength, becoming pale
As wishes turning into dope
And hands are bending paper.
And eyes are blurred like bloody sketch.
Nine thousand ninety nine cranes.
And two more wings to stretch.
999 The End
© Copyright: Дениска Зверёк Яковлев, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108012600405
Свидетельство о публикации №108012600405
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