The apples with cinnamon.
Baked.
They ooze with honey.
There are two porcelain cups on the tray.
They have fragrant tea infused with cardamom.
The last rays of the sun are on the ceiling.
In the neighboring house opposite, the shutters are closed.
And I don't even have curtains.
The street is silent.
Empty.
Or maybe just voiceless.
Someone climbs the stairs barefoot.
My floor creaks.
God has a crust of bread for everyone
and a glass of tart wine.
Welcome, darling, to share this modest dinner
in my humble attic flat.
13.25 02.06 2021
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© Copyright: Valentin Luchenko, 2021