The sunset painted skies with fire,
That's made of blood, so red and cold,
And merging with the autumn's gold,
It makes forthcoming night look dire.
Sun clings to skyline blurry colors.
No more it needs to keep off shade.
Slack breezy whispers words of fate
And hardly prays to all that follows.
Trees seem to be like burning torches. -
They flare up in reddish light.
Another day has lost its pride...
It dies and waves you: "Buenos noches!"
Sunset
© Copyright: Maxx, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108051100900
Свидетельство о публикации №108051100900
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