Often in dreams, to-me come
Years, my past..,
They start a conversation with me,
About the old days...
Budharaja in the heart,wounds,
And burned bridges,
Vnesennye strikes,
And beatings, from fate..,
Where is my pathetic memory,
With a graying head,
Begins the soul of the game,
Disturbing, my peace!
***
© Copyright: Ирина Дмитриевна Стрелкова, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120010207192
Свидетельство о публикации №120010207192
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