Winter rain.
You aren't crying... this is winter rain -
its silver drops are falling to thy glass
with cola and baccardi, left for last,
For what you're not awaiting to be gained.
Behind the mist of winter rains blue
accustomed old buildings in disorder
with chips of memories, that won't say a word,
bright Moscow shines... but alas - no for you...
31.10.2002
Walhe, я надеюсь, ты не в обиде? Такие уж мы, учителя английского, дикие люди!