I walked down the station, bones were groaning
For an unstable breezing, a heavy blow from a may freezing;
Hands in my pockets, my brain's in that city
Where I spent most time feeling a haversack squeezing.
Handshakes are weapons, blunt and destricted,
Straining my ears to feel how trains are deceived
By ones penetrating the land of abysses.
By ones who required to receive us.
Handshakes
© Copyright: Ксе Васильева, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114090705655
Свидетельство о публикации №114090705655
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