Before the loss,
As prayers died,
Please moss the bed
For your own bride.
Just trusting words
Are not enough —
Too many knots,
Such senseless stuff.
If youth is pride,
Then hoar is zeal,
The hitch is tight —
And grief is real.
If it won't loose,
You'll lose the wheel,
And fate will choose
The card to deal.
Those born in hell
With fleeting mind:
"Don't miss the bell,
My sleeping bride."
Before the loss, As prayers died,
© Copyright: Цветков Александр, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126101300589
Свидетельство о публикации №126101300589
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