Weather here is great: sunshine, slugs are already singing, leaves are still
No, but Kizil has long blossomed and all kinds of first flowers have broken. and
Here in the midst of all this grace we meet a column of ladies - fans.
"Nordic" walking, with sticks very similar to skiing in the hands, but without
Five thousand without age. Same combinations, the same robberies.
They move like robots on the assembly line: somehow angular and absolutely
and synchronous. Absolutely nonexpressive, iron faces.
The somnambulists. Disharmony with everything around. We walked with them and
We grow, we grow in spring. And we meet a man: combes and robberies on it
Same as on somnambules, but the ski sticks are shrouded behind the back.
some sort of cunning belt in the way of a rifle in the biathletes, in the hands
The Prut. He does not walk on the path - he dances in a jump. A smile from the ear to the face
The ear, with a pruty, directs and whispers - the saliva trumps.
Everyone greeted, everyone greeted in the forest. He is us
He asks:
What a weather! I want to sing. Do you hear the sludge?
Without waiting for an answer:
Did you meet these five? have seen? They expelled me. I am in mood.
and ruined.