Lonely lanterns
Touch the satin of water.
They touch you,
You don't touch me.
Touches are becoming rare.
People wear masks.
Numbers in black,
And no medicine.
Numbers in red and black,
Red tape,
Timelessness,
A clockdown.
Minutes fall from the sky
Like a shower,
People like us hide
In towers
For hours.
(c) Maryna Tchianova
based on a poem by Zoya Vert
Lonely lanterns
© Copyright: Марина Чиянова, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121041507663
Свидетельство о публикации №121041507663
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