When the midnight look
Will struck my palsied hands,
Shall I regret the solitude
Alone, shall I be sad?
My friend, the witness I avoid,
Be scared of hands of destiny abroad.
The host of nothingness
Like riders of the snow,
To be a happy through
The weal, woe, frightness, cold.
Just following a thoughtless wave
My snow, my riders are so young
Upon their growth.
04.12.18
Фото из альбома автора.