Читать книгу John Harding 2-Book Gothic Collection - John Harding - Страница 10

It was April, I remember, though my spirit was December,

When a broken bird was lifted from the darkness of the lake,

In the sun white feathers gleaming, from her mouth black water streaming,

While within my voice was screaming until I thought my heart would break;

It was I who watched her dying, drifting, drifting, waiting in her wake

For God her soul to take.