Looking at the cross of roads
Feeling me a passer-by
Knowing all that’s going happen
Can’t make what have been denied.
Our elements drew closer
Your devotion making mine
Every word and every letter
Being true and being tried.
When the Yeats’ white moths on night wings
Fairy tale will come alive
Neither God and nor all humans
Can of magic it deprive.
Maybe never being real
So what “real” really is –
Faint as smell of Evening River,
Phantom of the Twilight Skies.
Nothing lasting, nothing stagnant
Never printed in the fate
No lighthouse on the coast
But a lantern at the gate…
Эдварду
© Copyright: Юлия Цезария, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109041400961
Свидетельство о публикации №109041400961
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