Farewell
I'm ill. My head is porridge nerves.I wrote the prose yesterday,
And paper sheets equal the leaves,
With whom I going to stay.
My hands are bleeding out. I'm blind.
And, you know, I leave home.
My friend, you must to laught, not cry,
And you must be alone.
Новость отредактировал Omegon - 11-09-2012, 04:27
Ключевые слова: Болезнь листья проза боль кровотечение english