October
October flies into the gardens
by shaggy bird.
Faces of trees are similar to faces of the sacred.
And there is the silhouette familiar somewhere,
But only the lantern has blinked to him near a house.
A long time ago, nightingales became hoarse and stopped singing,
And only a wind hums about the sun,
about love, and about last summer.
Copyright © Dina Televitskaya | Year Posted 2007
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