The old forest is silent, deep in thought,
Only occasionally will a bird cry out,
Yes, they ate like sentries,
They move the branches noiselessly.
And the sun bakes, heats,
Makes the resin flow,
But under the gray bark of ancient trees
A cool mist is stored.
Where the earth is damp between the roots,
Dark moss lies like a carpet,
There is a small spring hiding there,
Giving rise to a quiet, melodious ringing.
The old forest
© Copyright: Неля Николаевна Ясина, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124061806753
Свидетельство о публикации №124061806753
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