Международная русскоязычная литературная сеть: поэзия, проза, критика, литературоведение.
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It will be Sunday, autumn, rain
When I complete the verse unwritten.
So deep inside one little pain,
One painful love’s a little deeper.

I realized I lived before
Without any aim, just waiting.
I waited nothing yet so more
Than your three words. I’m still forgetting.

Oh, please, don’t think about my name
As I’m a cross you cannot bear.
My soul is so attractive flame
And you are flying with care near.

This trembling flame still could not touch
Your careful wings you kept unopened
Giving small chance to see how large
Span of the wings could be. Still hoping.

I tried to make a precious gift
But you were scared of my trying.
You lied. I lied that I believed
In words you said to me. Still lying.

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