So hot sun,after which will come cold snow.
I will take a gun,and let the bullet flow.
In a rapid way,It will fly away.
But my aim will not stay,
It will become bloody and unneccessary like clay,
Nothing will help even the last ray,
Nothing else to say.
It will just have its end,
Will not have desire to stand.
I will remember it like I remember my best friend,
When he died in my hand.
The bullet
© Copyright: Ортиков Диёр, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №119082100997
Свидетельство о публикации №119082100997
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