Of love and parture
to the sense of no feel, of comfort.
Taste of furor and delight it is of,
in vain it finds you, in doubt it hearts you,
to the moment colors turn deeds, to stay the reason.
… and many of loves it bares to pick.
Mole and butterfly in quest of joys split,
high and under, ready to try unity of divide.
In fervor it lets you go, in hope begins you again,
Claws and wings turn deeds of impossible, to protect your still.
Свидетельство о публикации №108042703491
Павел Горбунов 23.05.2008 12:56 Заявить о нарушении