The Earth awaits this winter to come,
When the snow will cover
Like a cloth shroud
Her body worn-out and done.
And even the people who never regard,
Joining her just after the death,
Slow down the endless race with themselves.
They softly touch her, making steps,
They keep a silent. Silence
Is the fellow traveller of dying.
Because there is nothing left to say.
It's just a taking of forthcomingness
Of things, just happening
Without delay.
Just things, that happen
© Copyright: Транспечаль, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111110407741
Свидетельство о публикации №111110407741
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