20 авг. 2009 г., 16:28

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                                                                   Напукана земята стене,

                                                                   като нестинарка, престъпила

                                                                   в отвъдното.

                                                                   Пресъхналите буци пръст

                                                                   отварят рани

                                                                   от безмилост.

                                                                   Сетива се лутат в

                                                                   тъмната безгрижност.

                                                                   Очи в бодлива тел.

                                                                   Изтръпнали ръцете ровят

                                                                   вкаменени буци.

                                                                   Там някъде нечуто ехо

                                                                   повтаря -

                                                                   не сме от пръст.

                                                                   И после пак, и пак...

                                                          

© Атанас Ганев Все права защищены

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