Soil of words gives me flesh and power.
Juice of poetry gives me blood.
In my chest at the golden hour
Love is starting to sing and bud.
Lips are tasting the sweet of colored rhyme.
Sonnets. Trembling. Excitement. Sound.
Music. Theatre. Ghosts of summer time.
Tears. Existence. The pictures. Found.
In the snow, through the dark and frozen air,
I will turn into fragrant rose.
Strong and fearless, assured and always fair,
Which will bloom on the path I chose.
Me
© Copyright: Диана Погорелова, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120080109634
Свидетельство о публикации №120080109634
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