I feel the night falls,
Lying under my sorrow,
Dead lashes of my fate cover me.
The blind man will sing a dirge
And the wind of sorrow
Will touch my weared locks.
But dirgeman never cries, gives the sage.
The black alder shrouds his face.
Under a branchy arch
He will stand pale and lonely.
A Dirgeman
© Copyright: Елена Анатольевна Ландина, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116052300520
Свидетельство о публикации №116052300520
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