Poetry by Tata Sorokina

They say that poetry fell from the sky. And apparently there she came back. Over the twentieth century – died poetry. Many will argue with me, but above a head will not jump, do not call yourself. What we Refaim now will never appear on the pages of books next to the great creations of classics. And to be honest, I do not care who and how calls himself. The poet is too loud is to get a hand to the sky, to the seventh heaven. I'm just a rhymer.