In vermeil lights beneath the Sun
The haze is trembling bondly.
My Eden, motherland of none,
We'll both come relics, won't we?
How floret, meant to bloom and grow,
Ends up with deadwood rotten,
Into the rusty soil I'll go,
And same you'll be forgotten.
Promised land
© Copyright: Ева Вайсс, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №119121605783
Свидетельство о публикации №119121605783
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