воскресенье, 24 июня 2007 г.

Flowers



            Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee...
William Blake


What do flowers grow for
on the surface of the Earth?
To collect them more and more
or to feed a stabled horse?

Why they grow on every stone,
every little piece of mud?
To remember those, who's gone,
or to keep a life of bud?

Why so coloured and so smelled
do they blossom every spring?
Do they die and rise again
for a little bird to sing?

I'm afraid, there's no recall
and no answer there's for me.
But I love them most of all
in their beaty and their glee!

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