He walked at night, he clutched a knife,
His step was swift and sure.
The moon was bright, the time was ripe,
A darkened fruit matured.
He stalked his prey and stormed ahead,
Determined on his mission.
The shadow prayed, the shadow begged -
But he refused to listen.
Fulfilling dreams, he came unseen
And snarled: "I grant no mercy."
A twist, a gleam, the shadow screamed.
He lunged - and killed his conscience.
A ballad of a murder
© Copyright: Кристина Девулите, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109102701071
Свидетельство о публикации №109102701071
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