Valery Petrosyan. (№ 406036)

At the mirror you are quiet -
wrinkles and gray strand,
and we, like late flowers,
we do not believe - it's time to wither.
And in the memory of the night thunderstorm
spring day and May thunder,
what autumn without tears,
without regrets for the former.
And be you sinful, be holy,
for a bird flock do not take off ...
and rain with a silver broom
sweeps birch copper.
Valery Mazmanyan