In the winter courtyard, the crunch of the dead’s bones is heard, And children are making a snowman, and there is blood in its hat; And an old man smokes a pipe in the window, remembering his youth — the truth, And the faces of passersby are drunk after a binge.
At the corner, they sell hot pies and porridge, — People steal, the vendors will soon die, And in this queue, jokes are heard, and someone’s spiteful words; And it seems: a corpse is hidden in this crunch of winter, And only compote is in your heart.
We are going home, and in our hands is an easel, And in our windows is light, and it beckons like a maniac in the night; And if you suddenly feel sad — remember this night in the courtyard, — And you will understand that that maniac is you, not us.
Maniac, Admit It to Yourself!
© Copyright: Вероника Логунова, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126061303690
Свидетельство о публикации №126061303690
Рецензии