We won't have any fires until dawn,
Do not listen to the song of the Nightingale,
Old love does not cry
Under the red clusters of Rowan trees.
Having passed the earth leapfrog,
Life doesn't sparkle like frost,
Heavenly not to Shine a star,
Which happiness was a name.
And don't spin the spindle
Amid a sea of faces and impressions.
Being a white-haired old man,
Just waiting for the rare invitations.
And a lot of fun those days,
When, as & nbsp; a dream all life hovered.
Memories are easy,
It's like you're living from the beginning.
Concerned lines
© Copyright: Кристина Борисовна Носова, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120010302902
Свидетельство о публикации №120010302902
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