The old city was in April

The old city was in April. From cloak sprinkled with snow and hail. In the evenings drinking juice and ale, eat blueberries and grapes. I woke up to five hours. Sometimes - to four and three. It was like a huge blue whale. And he liked to draw coal.

In April was a true friend. His name, of course - March. He had thirty pieces (or forty) playing cards. March loved bergamot and "Spleen", went to London and St. Petersburg. He was red as orange, multicolored like a summer meadow. Along with him came in February. He brought Armagnac and cheese ...

... Before dawn burning lantern.

April went barefoot, wrapped in a short cape. I drink up the bottle ale. And minted football on a big dry spruce. Humming "DDT" under his breath and watched as dawn lights up. He recalled that the finite post for thousands of years long. Sky colors like caramel reflected in river flows.

The old city was in April.
In the old city snow fell.

Jack Abaturov.

Preview: fo_oj



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