Ferns are quietly flapping
And bring frightful news,
How birds to south are flying
And they never do return.
With them, the song migrates,
Ugly, uncaressed,
And only cry from naked bird
Is scattered through the space.
Therefore, the book that’s open
At last nobody read
And there was no one to close it
Or shut its eyes in the end.
Because every story falls
Mercilessly, like a knight
And its proud deed of valor
Fleets away like a butterfly.
* /Translation from the Bulgarian version/
Butterfly Story*
© Copyright: Лучикмечтой, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104050300624
Свидетельство о публикации №104050300624
Рецензии