I sat, having muffled in a coat,
In windows the small rain drizzled.
In the house it was silent and it is fresh,
But to rise there were no forces.
The old house, having grown thin, stood
Near small river, village on the brink,
And the cold wind forced,
Muffling up in a coat, to search heat.
Through the broken glass of a window
Dead sheet, being slightly turned, has flown.
Again time the wall is destroyed
Memory, which death a limit …
memoirs
© Copyright: Дмитрий Бессмертный, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110121405184
Свидетельство о публикации №110121405184
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