The object's passing through the sky,
It looks like yellow glorious eye,
It passes through the starlight night,
And throws down the jealous sight.
The object's name is simply Moon,
For poets is she the real noon,
Perhaps the dogs will bark at her,
She needs it and?.. And nothing more.
The Moon is swimming, being so lone,
Until Aurora touches her throne.
But then light fills the atmosphere,
And Moon is melting in her sphere.
The Moon
© Copyright: Бородулина Екатерина, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №215070600448
Свидетельство о публикации №215070600448
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