In an old and dusty house
Mirrows curtained long ago,
Outside of mossy chaos
Winds through oaks low and low.
Screeching noises from the garriet,
Water streaming down the floor;
And a paper, which was carried
By the water to the door.
In the middle of the front room
There's a table, and on it
Lies a coffin with a body;
Body rots and soul is quit.
Twenty years it is lying
In the house, not in grave,
And that soul isn't flying,
'Cause the door is locked and safe.
Свидетельство о публикации №110021404957
Екатерина Пыхова Лис 29.11.2011 23:21 Заявить о нарушении
Фокин Дмитрий 29.11.2011 23:24 Заявить о нарушении
Екатерина Пыхова Лис 29.11.2011 23:28 Заявить о нарушении