She`s sitting at the table under the shelf,
The face about the liqud copybook.
And the Cross, made by herself,
Please, believe me, hurts like hell.
The Cross on her heart – you mustn`t come in.
The Cross on her heart – the door is closed to smithereens.
The Cross on her heart – nobody`s forgiven, the wall is built.
The Cross on her heart – but her fears are killed.
The cross
© Copyright: Алена Фомкина, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108042200605
Свидетельство о публикации №108042200605
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