A Rest, Which's... - Poem by Lyudmila Purgina
A rest, which's hardly to be found
Even under the hot sun of the south...
And heart again melts to the ground,
In heat of circle of the dancing,
In the mysterious hearth of night,
I'm pulled after it... It demands
To go to transparence of darkness,
To drain out the melancholy...
Where's no love... Where nobody hepls
To reach with hand the passion's core...
When I get up - a ray of sun again
Touches my naked shoulder...
I am - in light of this dark ray...
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