Night plays grasshoppers' fiddles
The moonlight touches stars
Which as a bunch of currants
Turn yellow o'er the bars
Of a quiescent river
With swaying rows of reeds
Being dopey at the waters
Drown thick in fogs… in greens
Through apple orchards roaming
Night drips on soils or flits
From shrubs or echoes homing
Bump ears with froglings' hits.
And here we are made sitting
And harking stories celled…
Being vocalized so slowly
By centuries withheld…
Night plays grasshoppers fiddles...
© Copyright: Оксана Соловьева, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111011005019
Свидетельство о публикации №111011005019
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