This time runs through my tired hands
This time runs through my tired hands,
And pouring like a desert sand.
I'm nightingale but without tongue
Can you understand It's not a fun.
I don't want to be a sacrifice
In hands of fate, In your blue eyes,
I always read between the lines
And I can't feel myself so fine.
I walk that long and empty street,
Where's sity calmly dreams and sleeps,
Where's slowly crying rain
And we are waking up in pain.
What happens with my little world?
In which the winds are blowing cold?
Which had become a dark for me
And all these years left with me.
That street is life. That cruel game,
There is no somebody's blame,
We often want to look for light
And make It more a large and bright.
September 2007
© Copyright: Эльмара Мустафа, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112112400909
Свидетельство о публикации №112112400909
Рецензии