Your conscience is the porter of your dreams,
Fastidious and bad and sometimes sins.
And mortified confession of the fault
Will soon turn rough and very old.
Heart-scaled thoughts will disappear,
There is no interest in fear.
You’ll give yourself a nervous flaking
And burn your soul in very flaming.
That husky voice from out there
Crowns all your courage in despair.
It sides with mortal sins of terror
It gives no chance for you to error.
It yelps and mutters in your head,
And hurls the days and makes you mad.
But don’t give up at the beginning,
Get rid of shakens of the feelings,
Don’t let your sins be your impressions
And mind the day of first confession.
10.10.2001
first confession
© Copyright: Ирина Абрамитова, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111062305330
Свидетельство о публикации №111062305330
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