It sped into the winter evening skies,
This magic month of love, adventures, poems;
And so was born a fountain, a g;iser,
A spring of dreams – unending and our own;
The month is next to done – a little sad:
To hold it back is silly, childish, futile.
But months to come are better yet, I say, -
We’re writing stories, history and futures.
“I love you” – so poor these magic words
Compared to the truth and faith unending.
Our swords and wands are magical and ruthless.
Our love in works of art forever rendered… … … … …
A subway memoir
© Copyright: Маленький Принц, 2022
Свидетельство о публикации №122122807470
Свидетельство о публикации №122122807470
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