We all are books on shelf of life,
Turning our pages to survive.
We change with every line of text
And noone knows what will be next.
Whoever wrote us, he is gone,
And now the books are all alone.
But each of us has single need,
We wait for someone who will read.
But fate of most books is the same:
Being thrown into burning flame...
If we are books, then time is sand.
What has beginning, must have end.
Bookshelf
© Copyright: Антохин Антон, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108111404904
Свидетельство о публикации №108111404904
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