Дельта

Дельта

A white-maned white-haired winter-bird was curled and dusty. All our hopes and prayers are now on the saints. The future sailed away, and we remained. Got lost, didn't get on the magic ship. The task now is simple - not to perish in the fog, not to die from the cold, not to go under the ice. Don't fall into your own traps. Are we all in one big trap here? We run around in a short circle, counting the missing.