The snow has melted, stained with red.
His eyes still struggling to believe it,
A man walked through the crossing red
Along the trail the wounded beast had left it.
He drew a bead on death, his aim.
His guts foretold a bloody revel
The blued steel barrel spat again
A large caliber bullet.
No way, no means to wipe away
Those crimson tracks - they stay.
The red colour
© Copyright: Евгений Тушин, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126032803160
Свидетельство о публикации №126032803160
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