With heart consumed with melancholy
On bed of thorns I face,
I'm blessed by saying Holy,
The Holy Magic Grace.
In harmony enchanting,
May hear you Heaven's Gift
Of words that breathe in shining
Like gems in Delfic light.
Your heart will take of fears,
And worries fly away -
With honey dreams and easy tears
You'll make the Easeful Pray...
November 8, 1999
М. Ю. Лермонтов. Молитва
© Copyright: Сергей Трусенков, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109080707056
Свидетельство о публикации №109080707056
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