Galata will raise, tearing the skies
Getting pierced it will pour out it's gold
Bridge will move to escape from the ties
It will hide both of us from this world
As we sit near the worried seaside
At the place where Bosphorus will blow
You will tell me what bothers your mind.
I will tell you what bothers my soul.
H. T
© Copyright: Дочь Игоря, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114030500750
Свидетельство о публикации №114030500750
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