Paws of the spruce

You know, that paws of the spruce didn’t tremble for long time.
It’s probably course neither paws nor the spruce on the south.
I am watching the photos, where we’ve been so frankly for sometimes.
Since that I am not writing a poems for years. It’s drouth.

Just reading the past, let’s be frankly, not much from the heart.
And smile to my pencil, which hidden in clutter of sketches.
In fact, I'm not even myself anymore, no restart.
I am rather like everyone. Filtering, saving, make fetching.

In course of a time such a tripe has been stocked on the shelves.
And thoughts. They don’t lie, they became very old with the years.
I'm not very friendly with them, they exist by themselves.
Of course, they don’t hurt, they belong to the past as a gears.

And sudden sharp pain, as my lip has been bitten with teeth,
returns me to that, what is solely and only important.
You’re there on the north and the south is somewhere beneath.
You know, that I’m freezing with bitter and silent comportment.

Please, write me more often. Just write me, just something, I’m begging.
Just write me about the paws of the spruce in the snow.
It’s long time have past since I got your last message frustrating,
with no obligation, and maybe no hope for melt floe.

You know, after all, we are lucky despite what has done.
On this shabby photos against the background of spruce.
One person was godless in love with someone.
It seems, only now that I’ve understood this.

So God, give me power today not to make a mistake!
How I would have embraced you warmly today, do you know?
How would you again give me smile for a smile every day.
How gentle would be me and you with the love which we owned.

You know, I haven’t been writing a poems for ages.
That small piece of paper and pencil as vital I needed
to write you (it’s silly) and keep with a million sketches.
That spruce little pencil’s forever and secretly hidden.