AT THE EDGE OF WORN PATHS
We would perish,
if we were not perishing.
Plutarch
Come, in your evening glow so lonely,
Embrace the autumn, let your feelings flow free –
For the quiet words that raindrops say,
The whispers of pines in their gentle sway;
For wind’s cool breath, like a lover’s caress,
Chilling the neck with a soft, sweet stress;
For the soft shudder of bushes that grieve,
For grasses bent low, as if to believe –
They too shall be trampled, yet still they remain,
As if asking for pardon, for all of their pain…
At the edge of worn paths
© Copyright: Сергей Тебердин, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125060103534
Свидетельство о публикации №125060103534
Рецензии