(The P.S. of one romantic novel)
She was more beautiful than angel,
She was more pure, girl can be.
And in her life I was a stranger,
But thought that she could be with me.
She was my way, lead to the heavel,
She was my light, so bright in dark.
She wasn't mine - and will never,
But why, I haven't even asked.
She was like rose in the cold,
She was so innocent, so dangerous.
"I love you", - hundred times I told,
But she could hurt, like every rose.
She was so innocent, I wasn't,
In every opposite to her.
Now her beaty has been frosen,
And I'm dead - and nothing more.
2003
She
© Copyright: Ольга Романовская, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104092301447
Свидетельство о публикации №104092301447
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