Through the dark windows of heavy eyes,
I saw that street with a drunken pace.
Up and down the laugher gave rise,
Bursting from the crowd with disgrace.
Umbrellas of all colors exposed like flags;
The rain crying on someone's rags.
Buses, arches, bridges, and pavement,
Wed beauty and ugliness into enslavement.
On worn out paint in scratched old alleys -
I saw a story in parts, once again;
He, she, in a prison of distant valleys,
A Well-known, sad portrait of pain.
Breeze tears apart the whistle pleas of ships:
"Where are you, oh my beloved shore?"
Whether I simply missed your lips
Years before,
Or I've been through that strange city's door.
Ты, Ванкувер английская версия
© Copyright: Глеб Калашникофф, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108122102394
Свидетельство о публикации №108122102394
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