Burn all my poems in the fire,
Bury the ashes in the ground,
Shower the soil with salty crying,
So no one searched for them and found.
Forget about this trodden path,
Be always beautiful and free.
This land will cover up with grass,
And all dead words will grow a tree.
Under this tree you will find peace,
You know, I never have been wrong.
Its leaves will give you a release.
It grew for you, so big and strong.
All my poems
© Copyright: Жанна Ахтямова, 2022
Свидетельство о публикации №122122307523
Свидетельство о публикации №122122307523
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