I’m just unwritten line,Slippe… (Lara Mishanova)

I’m just unwritten line,Slipped on a crumpled page, Just point out the sad dots Or wounded little pticas of your country invented-misty,The one in which pies to bake for dinner, I always you thought you were too weird You were always somehow most of us probably ever know,You, me, and me you in two hundred years Unwritten line anacaena page messed up “apart” and “together”