Sad King
Somewhere in some country called Magic,
Sad King thinks about me
in the evening, in the morning,
at night and in the afternoon.
I know nothing about him.
I know only: In the Magic country
This King writes a poems about me.
When he writes ,
The ancient candles are on his table...
And again I am angry at the sun
of our White nights.
Copyright © Dina Televitskaya | Year Posted 2007
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