In the slums sits a penniless poet, writing lines,
And he has neither rhymes nor rhythm — just like me;
He writes about war and murders,
And in his lines theres no answer — only truth.
We listen and feel: poetry is just an empty sound.
Is poetry just an empty sound?
© Copyright: Вероника Логунова, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126062304676
Свидетельство о публикации №126062304676
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