We are from a grove of openwork birch weasels
On the path winding turbulent passions
Wandered into the thicket of the forest, where the happiness of the day is quenched
From insults and doubts of prickly branches.
We swam in the azure heady waves
Without a doubt, dived in love depth.
Sensing euphoria on full steam
With a heavy load of confessions went to the bottom.
We, having got into a labyrinth of slender legs, gentle hands,
Lost in the bends of caring bodies.
And the intoxicating ecstasy suddenly turned into fright,
Although each other wanted bliss.
We were afraid of the routine, the ordinary caresses,
Tenderness quickly melted away in the dusk of affairs.
In the heart is heard again indifference clang
The feelings of the bouquet are not withered, only thinned.
Where are the paradise of intimate comfort?
Where is the flight in the heavens of the pleasures of the earth?
Why did love suddenly become not for everyone?
Where is the aroma of kisma hoppy now?
Like ghosts wandering, without feelings and hopes
This boat of love again broke about life.
We have filled up a host of indifferent ignorant,
And baby Cupid is crying sobbing again ...
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Critic! The lightning speed of the reaction is still impressive. But this time I still really liked the text. In the past, your message attracted an unexpected turn of events in this sense of writing. Thank you very much.
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In my opinion, this is just an ornate verbiage about anything.
The process for the sake of the process.
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Eugene, it seems, this time I did not manage to lucidly express feelings. When you are inside a situation and describe it, it is very clear what you are writing about, and it’s incomprehensible to the outside reader. This is the case.
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