I am the flute, I am the oat,
The singer on the dewy stem;
Twelve notes are in my throbbing throat,
The universe is made of them.
And you enjoy by night my chime
In each my note you hear the time
Enchanted linger, dream and stay.
Before it flies from you away.
The nightingale
© Copyright: Владимир Микушевич, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113060605043
Свидетельство о публикации №113060605043
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