Halt the spasm wilder wring,
You, wrecked, old thing!
Just get, do get some grip,
Stifle the treacherous lip,
Avoiding the eyes, go out,
Out of the Tea House!
Now five painful breadths
Would, probably, easy distress,
Across the road than toil
Oblivious of the silver 'Vauxhall'!
Go ahead through the gate
Then immediately on your left...
Here it is, hard as a stone,
The willing shoulder you cry on.
Hug the age-old platan-tree,
Do believe you are utterly free
To moan, sob, even shout,
Sinking into a dismal cloud...
Then leave off, for sad and mute,
Your friend would аsk:
-What can I do?
Don't my exhausted pale leaves,
Those maltreated elephant ears,
Stir up a troubled notion:
Neither you nor I
Need the salty potion?-
The willing shoulder you cry on...
© Copyright: Ксения Желева, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116021206441
Свидетельство о публикации №116021206441
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