greencatina @ 2009-07-12T11: 02:00
As it happens, it is for others chutche than most to her. Certainly
notice, no doubt - to study, to those little things,
what lurks in the everyday lives of our ears,
From our view, the spirit of drowsiness,
the similarity of days,
for infidelity our speeches.
As it happened, she did not sing for myself, not singing someone else's -
No, it gradually becomes a mirror of our souls.
thin thread, transparent silver shadow
Extracts from the bottom of our unconfigured,
Our joy, sadness, smiles, doubt,
all our lives.
As it happened: she does not sing for myself, but hides inside
beauty of unselfishness, the magic of tenderness, a stellar song.
She can not open it - whimsical and affectionate -
But look:
It stopped tale
which may not be everyone to read.
Who knows what she sings when she home alone -
soft light from the window, and the attentive silence of stasis?
What she whispers per hour when gulok and empty room waiting for?
How much love in our sleepy eyes,
To convince her to tell everything
inattentive to us? ..
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