Over the crevice of cliffs hope fell ill
A tear has turned to philosophical granite.
I climb up the cliff tearing my clothes
And I mend my fate from the broken slate...
Should I fly up to the cliff again? Could I help doing that?
Maybe fall like a rock? So that call of entreaty would stop...
I drag my toil; being torn apart.
The only thing saves on the way is a newly written verse...
Envy somebody weaves in an alpine strap,
And the rope in the mountains unlikely to withstand the cry...
Often Liho lives under that common mask...
Secretly cutting the rope at the enchanting moment...
Over the crevice of cliffs hope fell ill
A tear has turned to philosophical granite.
And hanging over the abyss, already between...
Ball of last hope dying down flies off...
Over the crevice of cliffs hope fell ill
© Copyright: Людмила Ларкина, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108082300647
Свидетельство о публикации №108082300647
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