Each Spring my ways are getting steeper,
More gloomier the eyes.
Each Spring they’re brighter and they're deeper,
The secrets of white nights.
The vessel that the Crecent’s sunken
Into a pallid grave -
The faces fade, the days are drunken..
The cards… the Gypsy sang.
Thrilled by the black and loud laughter,
Our faces were inflamed.
Light rained. The twilights' hurrid flutter.
Now: flat and tamed.
You see, my throat is stifled voiceless,
Night beauty suffocates…
The closing colors washed and lifeless…
So, prophesize my days…
Caresses mine are rough and awkward.
You’re lovelier than May.
So what? My lips are nearly deathward.
Unfasten mourful belt.
* * *
С каждой весной пути мои круче
Blok - Each Spring my ways are getting steeper
© Copyright: Виктор Постников, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118091804697
Свидетельство о публикации №118091804697
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