These houses mixed with chestnut trees,
I dreamed about them more than once.
They overgrew with melancholy without us,
They look sad, covered with wounds.
Children are playing in the sandbox again
And black soil is being sowed again.
I desperately want to breathe in lilacs
That we carried to the school that morning.
My memory is in every street of yours
And at every familiar bench, because...
Where are they, those light fresh scones?
Where are you forgotten, my youth?
01.12.2023
Way home
© Copyright: Волин Алексей, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124011302818
Свидетельство о публикации №124011302818
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