Words have slid in fresh, very quiet sea wind,
Like foot traces they sink in a sandy disguise.
Like an agate a glance quickly slipped by the prints
Sinking fast in the debths of indifferent eyes.
Like a sad sleepy chord of a mystery ball
Ringing sound of guitar – it’s for none and for all,
Modulation of strings, sound of gentle Baroque,
Like a spider, a guy with guitar on the rock.
And a crowd of the curious catching the chance
Standing ready to dive in this dream Decadance
Spain
© Copyright: Петровская Мария Георгиевна, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113112307917
Свидетельство о публикации №113112307917
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