We’re closer to the end with every sec of life:
Some men die being rich, some wounded by a knife.
Today another died — he was a man of years.
One more man lost his life, having fallen downstairs.
Another passed away, saving a drowning boy
Who’d fallen into water while gamboling on a hoy.
One man was climbing up a ladder by a wall,
Suddenly he lost his balance and had a deadly fall.
Somebody went to bed and died (no one knows why),
Somebody perished after his foe at him let fly.
A bullet or a knife, cold water or hot fire,
They all kill us, my friend — be you a peasant or sire.
June ‘95, 30.03.97
13. The End
© Copyright: Феликс Ремов, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120040900630
Свидетельство о публикации №120040900630
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