The winter called you, it is cold;
The frost attacked you, stung,
But don’t forget, that he is old,
And I am always young.
You crave for me, you try to catch
Your luck, your only chance;
You strike decidedly the match,
And I begin to dance.
Touch not, kiss not my shining crest,
My nature is the strife;
I have no time, I have no rest,
I am your dancing life.
The fire
© Copyright: Владимир Микушевич, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113060808675
Свидетельство о публикации №113060808675
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