When you are born,
The world is swinging,
The rhythm of your cradle,
When you grow up,
you hate
And childhood closes its doors.
The world tries to put
You on your knees.
To humiliate, to ask
And to believe in God,
Life passes,
But still all lousy.
Tears filled notebook,
You write an unknown force
"Gingerbread, today was not sweet,
But it's good that I did not kill "
Comes welcome your old age,
And you give yourself without reserve
And let all my life
You lived a rotten,
But in the cradle,
You were sweet.
cradle
© Copyright: Иван Земляков, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117012304485
Свидетельство о публикации №117012304485
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