There's the rowan-tree in my garden.
It stands bent and a little worn-out.
Every morning I beg her pardon
For the time when I had lots of doubts.
Poor tree! Crimson flame on your branches.
I can see you are burning in fire.
I spent my wretched life chasing fetches.
Autumn leaves will soon cover my tire.
They will fall on the friable ground
To remind me I must be free.
They will slightly adorn the mound
Of my grave under the rowan-tree.
Rowan-tree
© Copyright: Илья Коробцов, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №119110403910
Свидетельство о публикации №119110403910
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