My father was a sailor, without Russian version
the courageous and handsome man
Of course He always went out,
And could not come back again.
once he send me the letter,
When ocean was looking his eyes,
He didn't have pieces of paper,
That's why he was scratching the ice.
The ice didn't have a tough nature,
His ice melted near my bank
And all he scratched, all figures
Became just a steam, It was frank.
I felt all his thoughts, I know it!
He wanted to tell "I love you"
But he couldn't do it, he sailed,
And I waited the time of his news.
It's a destiny of children of sailors -
The waiting for unseen words,
When their fathers cut a blue colors
Of the sea, of the very big World.
Свидетельство о публикации №111021804845
Вы это пишите сами? Вы так владеете англиским?
И мы тут уже друг другу много рецензий оставили, то если не сикрет сколько вам лет? И на счёт "рамки на рабочем столе". Если у вас есть рабочий стол, то и офис есть. Если есть офис, то и компания, в которой он находится. А кем вы работаете?
Просто интеренсо узнать о человеке, который мои стихи в рамочку поставил, да и сам пишет очень хорошие произведения).
Женя Мороз 18.02.2011 16:06 Заявить о нарушении
Юлия Москавская 18.02.2011 16:23 Заявить о нарушении