Love is the way of certain dreams,
It has no sense at all.
Like windy flame, like hotty breeze
It makes the wings of soul.
It is the pleasure of the kings,
It conquers our will
Deleting all the pampered skills
It shows ourselves as real.
Love is the flight, and fight, and sight
Where you can lose your past
With happy smile by such demise.
Feel freely, you are right.
Love is...
© Copyright: Искандер Абдулхаеров, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125092005183
Свидетельство о публикации №125092005183
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