All died, or killed.
Grim, eternal Rus ...
By thin birch-tree nailed,
In the heart of an aching sadness.
Off-road trail
Dilapidated hut in the distance ...
Evil bad weather, atheism
Soul on the edge of lead.
Where are we? Not hear an answer
Who are we? Nobody knows.
So since the previous century ...
We have turned into nothing?
I do not find the road
Do not fall asleep at night ...
Live it, but padded feet
Get cool, but my heart pounding.
Heart
© Copyright: Николай Трофимов, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110012702619
Свидетельство о публикации №110012702619
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