Old painting

Do not sell secondaries,
To the dealer for three coins
The picture is old, where is summer,
And the sky in white clouds;

Remove it from the wall,
Look into the slow jets,
There are dull colors of kissing,
Like an echo of a lived spring...

There is an unmade bed
From non-booths and left,
There's a quiet evening over the river,
And the village light;

To us, as savior and creator,
There the white drizzle from the branches flies,
And with the beak of the spark carves,
He, breaking the ice of hearts;

There are golden poplars,
And red-fire maples;
There's a fast train by the apron,
And all at the beginning, all from scratch!

Ticket in the past years,
A simple piece of paper is crushed in your pocket...
This picture in a dusty frame,
Never sell.


Рецензии