1863

Надин

You don't live in happy time, But you write the story. Why? If your soul has blood and hell, You didn't live in happy, then. Honestly, I can't believe Into your lie, how you feel. This time maybe 'bout love, Where we flew in underground. In life of terrible times We shooted in our hearts. In our bodies were sins and fights, And we were swimming in our cries. You said you're not a killing machine. You afraid, you asked: Why is it me? But I saw you: Because, is it soul. And I know myself, so truce will not be.

2018-05-10 19:57:36

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I saw a dream, and there were you, And there was coldness in your eyes. I wonder what a kind of true Made you become as cold as ice. And later I looked back to get a sense This empty glance was hellish call of past. It used to be a high and strong defense Against the world, the pain and me at last. You looked at me, and peering in your soul, I felt so lonely, as something vital died. And that is what I fear most of all - That nothing gentle will remain inside. Inside of you. Inside of me as well. And nothing will be said to farewell.

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