Puppets fly in the room
light blue and mazarine,
Framed by the white brooms
I fly with force to it.
You are all bending up
And your face is sad,
In a blue big attire
With a tulle edge that's ragged.
The wings are gentle traps,
Every may breathe and call.
I am your fresh rose
Blood down on you flows.
I catch dolls in the room.
Count them when it's caught.
But even if I hook,
Dolls disappear not.
Puppets fly in the room
© Copyright: Елизавета Судьина, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №119102208195
Свидетельство о публикации №119102208195
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