All the magpies in hamlets,
all the snow in the fields
bear black and white beards,
tails of February hicks.
Splash of flock fly-by, hanging
over aspics of soil,
frozen deep since December
flush with woods. Even so,
chilling jellies are bitten,
neither stocked at the place,
where the witch crazy winter
keeps emissions of waste.
On the way to the Uncleville,
all the pine-sticks or less
taste the famine in heaven
as the soup of the mess.
Hungry meat, that's esurient,
eats a bone frost in pale...
The magpie's color of homeland,
the empty news off the tail...
24.09.2011
Текст на руском:
http://www.stihi.ru/2011/02/27/54
On the way to the Uncleville
© Copyright: Андрей Дешпит, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111092405591
Свидетельство о публикации №111092405591
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