They were tart and shining, with a strong smell of the sea
As the Moroccan oranges, as Russian central region pears.
Every month staff was being handed down from their flat,
Sets were being smashed on floor (each time a lot of plates).
They were sitting blue from the night cold on the shaky porch.
It's just the fact – all their quarrels, scandals and rows.
They were silent.
A teapot whistled by Tchaikovsky, the music in the cook room.
Be sure, their correlation will break down only with balcony’ doom
As the Moroccan oranges...
© Copyright: Дима Гарин, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111052108487
Свидетельство о публикации №111052108487
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