Yet suddenly my hands are getting cold,
A monologue is hearing from the mold,
The ceiling sways and laying like blindfold,
Threshold.
An overgrown old cabin by the cracks,
The mica fields are sparkling close to shacks.
And flicker by the water surface glass
The tracks.
The wreaths are swing at branches all as one,
The tops are dancing mad and blocking sun,
The fangs are getting silently undone.
Get run.
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Данное произведение является художественным авторским переводом стихотворения "Следы"
http://stihi.ru/2016/10/12/959
The tracks
© Copyright: Май Вихрев, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125061200384
Свидетельство о публикации №125061200384
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