A night, a street, a lamp, a drugstore.
A meaningless and dismal light
A quarter century outpours -
It’s all the same. No chance to flight.
-
You’d die and rise anew, begotten.
All would repeat as ever might:
The street, the icy rippled water,
The store, the lamp, the lonely night.
© Dina Belyayeva
yaplakal.com