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Poems
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flying in flames as the eternal question. . .
No responses. Here are unable to give peace of mind
no one alive. Plug and grieve.
the brightness Vizbulis viz.
Through the summer grass skriedams,
this beam is faded.
sky as a large, wide-Paris Las
add eyes and a full long
loved ones at the heart of their summers.
if there is no green there\'s hope here,
the moss under the snow knows how to save.
zemzemītē\'ll be
yet this side of the forest voices
the murmur of my life.
Here comes the planting time -
without the gardener\'s fall.
Seedlings tend to walk in the world,
growth driven by a will.
we tend to fluctuate again in grains germinate,
We went long svešādajās,
and can not survive in its lifetime,
and words can not be expressing.
even the tip of the needle spīvums green
but breaks down in moments of constant pain -
there called branches of the black woodpecker hammered. . .
echo after the river has lost immediately,
but you said nothing himself and neatsaucies.
and candles near the flame,
that, Warm kusdama on your hands crying. . .
What life - as far as visible as bright
all the attached
yourself and even attached!
Never runs out over the sea
sunset so great and golden.
Never again after you neilgošos
alkaini so and so in va
Mūsmājas sky.
Never, never, we no longer neizrunāsim
It is to be blind to wander winds.
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