We drink from Being goblet
But eyes are blind
Have moistened brims that golden
With our brine.
Down forehead when we're dying
The string is drawn
And things that were so charming
With string are gone.
That time we see that empty
Was golden bowl
Inside was Horn of Plenty
That don't belong!
Bowl of Life Лермонтов - Чаша Жизни
© Copyright: Дитрих Даркер, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126040507164
Свидетельство о публикации №126040507164
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