Читать книгу The poetry of spring - C. Zueva - Страница 14

The flower lover

The slope shrouded at the shaggy grass.

The water was riding white.

Into the heavy, nasty times,

In silence, I remember Your sight.

Do not to search me do You not.

I want to always be in the shade.

I’m, like the flower waterfall’s,

Which someone picked up to air.