Boris Red. (№ 153841)

Somewhere far away, where the smells of the forest roam,
somewhere far away, where the air, as the faint, mottled...
Where the evening where the fall, where crying forgotten childhood,
having broken lokotochki for red head stars
there is moon, forest, mine, in the autumn glades
torn, melting in a semi-
night silver...
Where I is the reflection of the moon in lavender-si...
in pale blue mist,
where I am the life, not doita life of the city lights.