Before the loss,
As prayers died,
Please moss the bed
For your own bride.
Just trusting words
Are not enough —
Too many knots,
Such bitter strife.
Though youth is pride,
And hoar is zeal,
The hitch is tight —
And grief is real.
Unless it’s 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"
Those born in hell With fleeting mind Don t miss t
© Copyright: Цветков Александр, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126101300735
Свидетельство о публикации №126101300735
Рецензии