How many words are left in the distance,
Thrown to the grass and at the feet of the pines.
Their voice was weak, barely tolerable,
But it was easy to walk with them.
How many of them were scattered under the step
White birch summer
Rhymes of midday light
In young sadness or just like that.
How many of them wept and called
In unison with the guitar strings,
Their voice is not yet old
Permanently snow covered.
How many forgotten and yesterday
In the alleys of quiet thoughts
In the expectation of happiness or dashing
In the balance of eternal sin,
Where the fate of their loved ones
With the words that we throw in sue,
No, we don't draw our words,
And words draw us, people.
How many words
© Copyright: Диана Ярославовна Афанасьева, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120010208610
Свидетельство о публикации №120010208610
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