We were standing on the windy hills
Around the city, and looking back
To the sun behind the mills
Red on chocolate black
like a giant sweety
I was Heathcliffe,
If not resembling
Then as to my place
In the script.
You, Cathy, did not answer
To my brief,
And I was trembling
Trying to trace
The rival's drift
Do you love me, my closest friend?
My angry Roma face
And my eyes
Are open to every disgrace
And to every kind of lies,
But not to a cold phrase
"Farewell darling, it is the end."
Heathcliffe
© Copyright: Антонио Петрофф, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110120803536
Свидетельство о публикации №110120803536
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