друзья:
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| Вести из Забугорья. |
| 14.02.2010 |
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 Jane_Jorns |
| 04:04 Stop all the clock, cut off the telephone |
| Запись открыта: всем |
| Теги: стихи |
Stop all the clock, cut off the telephone
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
silence the pianos and with muffled drum
bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circles moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky the message
"he's dead!''
put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves
let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my north, my east, my west,
my working week and sunday rest,
my moon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought thet love would last
forever I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now;
pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
pour away the ocean and sweep up the mood
for nothing now can ever come to any good.
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