Not the last tango in Paris
In Paris, yellow is a butterfly under the roofs,
And walking barefoot rain on Fontainebleau.
About you and about me he did not hear anything,
But would have heard - asked - what do we care?
I would say that I wait for a miracle of the indispensable,
That other countries could not help me,
And would admit to the love of the Seine, that by the veins here
Invariably moves in dance day and night.
Here, palaces along the streets - a white ribbon festive,
And the eyes of the passer-by are full of joy,
I already know that life is not different,
We just look at it in different ways.
Above the houses white color curls white.
And although you do not speak Russian well,
I will learn to love you so that you weep bitterly
Without me, enthusiastic, joyful Paris.
Paris, you did not talk about love, but I knitted words with a knot in the autumn,
But the outlines of these words with a balloon of dreams
I let go, let them fly over the Seine.
Irina Maule
by : Vladimir Volegov art for sale
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