Boris Red. (№ 144109)

Glassmakers in the sky
blow scovato the lamp of the moon.
Falling asleep, I see beautiful dreams,
multi-colored fiction.
All the bad things that happened yesterday, forgotten today.
So God willing,
we are not accustomed to the blows of fate,
to a new the blow was sudden, but we
did not give up and lived.
And trembling outside the window and millions of lights.
I write about anything. Yes, you bear at least a hundred friends,
loneliness in my veins.