Ah-ah-ah, don’t cry, my boy,
you will grow big.
With your brothers and your sister,
we will play a tig.
And we will rush down, dear,
down to the hill.
Mom will smile in the window-
you we’ll get up to ski.
Here is moaning in the corner
old chap saxophone,
you still play on it, my baby,
blues and vals-boston.
Hush, hush, hush, you sleep, my son.
Tears are drip and drip -
father sings and lulls grieving
mortuary urn.
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© Copyright: Ирина Савицкая, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116030610004
Свидетельство о публикации №116030610004
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