Down, down from the high,
where sky is bright and colors're sharp...
Down, by the slope,
with no turning or looking back...
Down, into the valley
under the shield of mist,
where tints are smooth,
hardly caught by eye...
I am speaking here with trees,
tall guardians of the eternity,
and withered grasses,
remembering the bloom
before the white face of death.
Stones, knowing everything,
are answering to me.
I'm breathing in the silence
of this foggy dawn,
where I'm the only man.
I'm back again, my Homeland!
Back to the wood
© Copyright: Сергей Лысенков, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115111304749
Свидетельство о публикации №115111304749
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