through morbid haze of skull
the flowers will appear
turn their yellowish heads to
your dusty sun
the birds will creak hymns of glory
to the infinite beauty
and the dogs will bury their noses
in your hand
infinite mass won't reach its end
all the praises -
to Orpheus, our lad.
orpheus sang about
© Copyright: Валентина Гавриилова, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121061505767
Свидетельство о публикации №121061505767
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