It must be my mistake:
I called her Sun.
I knew that every Sun did fade,
But hoped she'd be the one
Who'd not escape,
And now I see
A setting purple trace -
She's leaving, leaving me
Beneath the skies of grace
I used to love,
At which cannot but gaze,
Which for a second cannot hold...
It's my mistake:
I used to call her Sun.
I know that every Sun does fade.
I hope there'll be not one.
J
© Copyright: Александр Снитко 2, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116092800373
Свидетельство о публикации №116092800373
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