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< Misha Campfires



You say:

"The rain drips.

Bad. For the collar.

Razvezli way. »

And you are silent,

Listen,

As droplets careful

Steps marking,

Soothing:

"We ... not for a long time ... ...

Soon ... Concha. "

It is necessary to cry,

Moment! Flashed past!

You -. Other

Summer, as there was no -

Steppe zaporoshena.

The moment yet! All he wanted,

Scattered flock!

Again one drink tea,

Kuta cat in a blanket,

Dreaming.

Rain outside the window

Whispers, sneaks,

Lying on the cheeks

Tears:

"Come on, fellow traveler, arrived.

Get down! "