3 min reading
Sometimes I dream that I’m a bird
And I’ve been cuddled by twilight.
An early riser mower runs
Along the stellar crickets tide.
The heavens buttonhole’s embroidered
Along the horizon by golden sting,
Around the sun – wax burning drop.
In this fine morn don’t wake me, please!
The air’s flavored by a cherry,
And burst in sweetness, and so tart.
The vanity’s unnecessary
And you know you are still alive. ...
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Преди време се опитах да направя превод на английски на моето стихотвореине "Птици по никое време", любопитно ми е дали се е получил :)