Every tree has own time to blossom,
Own time to green, a time to fruit,
Sale the emeralds to those lonesome
Winds that throw coins to the roots…
Coins of the gold, of copper, rust
Will they shine as warmly as the sun?
May be for a moment… in the past,
Just allow the snowy winter come.
Here it comes together with the coldness,
With the glimpse of twilights in the darks.
Those coins… Nobody’s holdin’
But the roots to pay the vernal sparks.
Nobody is holding
© Copyright: Гималайский Кедр, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114102905015
Свидетельство о публикации №114102905015
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