What's this, creeping in the dark of bloody veins,
Tightly hidden in my soul under thousand veils?
Cold and nasty sadness crumbling like a hundred stones
Not off my heart - alas - precisely on.
Turning back so many times to days that passed,
I've seized the goodness like a thief at last.
Foolish deed, as I was fooled by love,
But no one's eyes will ever see the woe.
You'll never hear and know my silent words,
Whispering "Still love you, though it hurts".
I've closed my heart from all those charms of men,
In order not to be so fooled again.
Sadness of my own
© Copyright: София Пинчук, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №119062205460
Свидетельство о публикации №119062205460
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