Hello... Sorry, I miss you...
The stars live until August.
I’m tired of wearing wings, –
Do you want a pair? –
Please, take them!
They won’t be a useless thing –
Heaven mourns Goethe’s Faust.
The verdict of the Almighty
is embroidered:
to count the stars in August.
The Sun is sad at its sunsets.
You know, the star is tired:
Having broken its body into atoms, –
Can you believe it? –
it still misses you, sorry.
March 30, 2009
Крылья. Wings
© Copyright: Александра Крючкова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125110508472
Свидетельство о публикации №125110508472
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