to Myself... Well, she walks into the house all dark and gloomy one candle burning in the corner..... in the house that is roomy

Reading Marina Tsvetaeva,(8 October 1892, Moscow – 31 August 1941, Yelabuga, Tatarstan, suicide)

years go by and years are changing faces and different light falls onto them... we move, we live in other places we grow older, getting wise becoming masters of disguise we know when to say and what sometimes we lie not to be caught

life like merry go round bought a ticket, got a ride but sometimes it swings around pushing you away, aside

I feel sometimes like willow tree that bending under heavy blow of gusty wind at night, when stars