Where is my bird whose wings I've never burned,
Though, She deserves 'em more than being flowered!?
If I were not as mad as you made me,
I wouldn't let my lust angrily kill thy immortal spirit,
But naught is what I know:
You need no thoughtless words;
Thou may put unto my heart all your goldless forks,
As if they were of paper, it won't bleed!
***
© Copyright: Красавцев Сергей, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109051100739
Свидетельство о публикации №109051100739
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