Like fresh blood through the bandages, Because of the snow Rowan Is Red , But she did not regret about anything . Not what does not regret ... And you ?
You're throwing scraps of phrases , Evenings whiled away furtively Above the scribbled old notebook , Hiding icicles tearful eyes.
And cherishing empty dreams , Again Chillmere roam the mall, On that mountain ash Is Red , Like fresh blood through the bandages ...