The crescent burns a crimson shade
Above the empty lane.
I walk alone through whispers made
Of memory and rain.
A voice breaks through the still of night,
It calls my name so clear.
I turn to see a spark of light —
A friend is drawing near.
And then another joins the way,
Their laughter paints the air.
The shadows melt, the dark gives way,
To warmth that we all share.
Beneath the red moon’s gentle gaze,
Our hearts begin to shine.
The silence bends to joy and praise —
Their hands now hold to mine.
Hands in the Moonlight
© Copyright: Всеволод Дмитриевич Анисимов, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125090707065
Свидетельство о публикации №125090707065
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