The joy of life,
The brightness of the world,
It dimmed, it did not thrive,
It overgrew with mold.
The moon went black,
The darkness grew.
Your hand was slack:
Your life you threw
As far away as one could see
And in the maze among the three
Close-growing trees
A soul was left
To feel the breeze
And know of death.
(ноябрь 2010)
The End
© Copyright: Невзорова Оксана Юрьевна, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111031705805
Свидетельство о публикации №111031705805
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