Serban Raducu Bogdan (7 march 1988)
It's About November
You give him your kisses, more than my lips were given kisses
and all my days are painted black
because of that.
Your mouth, cannot speak my name with joy anymore,
and for that, I'm like an outcast, on your lips
my fair lady.
In your heart, it is hard to get in now
for you have taken back the gold key
you once placed in my hand.
Why do you enjoy being so cruel to me
when I did nothing but to love you?
Comments about this poem (It's About November by Serban Raducu Bogdan )
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