382
scythe
< Tim Skorenko
When you go, my boy, on the battlefield, you hear shooting, and suddenly you will understand, you fool, that here everything is different, the time is quite another, and even command sergeant do not sound so you'll run, setting the stage for your body scream, you'll shoot opaque hot smoke, and will at some point, unusually quiet, and you are, thank God, stay young. But it was an accident, just a pig in a slaughterhouse, plankton entering the avid whale's mouth; the doctor will not hold the attention to bubonic, so hardly notice your desertion platoon. You will lie will lie next to the other, looking at nothing, still grow in the grass, and would fade personal Bereguinias that without media - do not live
. Kos dissecting ears, tired mower with a sloping forehead wipes hot sweat; lunch-ssoboyki again indecently small, but you need to work, wheat - it is not waiting for rots in the morning and again in the evening is growing, and it is necessary to mow to the limit and wear; it happens in such a system come together things that day stroll - not enough dozen braids. That one spike - a boy with a history long and terribly bored already bad doctors; the other - a thick party owner "Volga", who loved to ride at speed at night. But the old man, the waste in his bed in the middle of loneliness, sorrow and darkness. And here is the polar explorer who has found peace in a snowstorm. But the Iraqi suicide bomber. And here you are.
We all just wheat. We - rye. We - oats. We - millet. We are - cereals, which can not be converted into bread. EQS us, worker, tear us leave the question; Earth-born Back Return earth. War or famine, disease, tsunamis, mudslides, avalanches, landslides, terrorist attacks, the effect of the crowd, casual shots, shots off target - but few eh reasons for mowing your routine? When tired mower faint hands, and the cat will go on the attack, the soul scratching, wave her he scythe whistle, drowning out the sounds, and the exact final blow frustrate yourself.
Run, stupid, ulepёtyvay battlefield, run through the woods, through the arable land, forward, forward - in a distant land where nebushko blue where the river banks are pouring in the milk and honey. You go out on the field and say, "Thank you, God" will find a dead man in the hardened dry mud.
Take his instrument. Ground, as you can. And then - Kosi. Do not take time off, brother mow.
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When you go, my boy, on the battlefield, you hear shooting, and suddenly you will understand, you fool, that here everything is different, the time is quite another, and even command sergeant do not sound so you'll run, setting the stage for your body scream, you'll shoot opaque hot smoke, and will at some point, unusually quiet, and you are, thank God, stay young. But it was an accident, just a pig in a slaughterhouse, plankton entering the avid whale's mouth; the doctor will not hold the attention to bubonic, so hardly notice your desertion platoon. You will lie will lie next to the other, looking at nothing, still grow in the grass, and would fade personal Bereguinias that without media - do not live
. Kos dissecting ears, tired mower with a sloping forehead wipes hot sweat; lunch-ssoboyki again indecently small, but you need to work, wheat - it is not waiting for rots in the morning and again in the evening is growing, and it is necessary to mow to the limit and wear; it happens in such a system come together things that day stroll - not enough dozen braids. That one spike - a boy with a history long and terribly bored already bad doctors; the other - a thick party owner "Volga", who loved to ride at speed at night. But the old man, the waste in his bed in the middle of loneliness, sorrow and darkness. And here is the polar explorer who has found peace in a snowstorm. But the Iraqi suicide bomber. And here you are.
We all just wheat. We - rye. We - oats. We - millet. We are - cereals, which can not be converted into bread. EQS us, worker, tear us leave the question; Earth-born Back Return earth. War or famine, disease, tsunamis, mudslides, avalanches, landslides, terrorist attacks, the effect of the crowd, casual shots, shots off target - but few eh reasons for mowing your routine? When tired mower faint hands, and the cat will go on the attack, the soul scratching, wave her he scythe whistle, drowning out the sounds, and the exact final blow frustrate yourself.
Run, stupid, ulepёtyvay battlefield, run through the woods, through the arable land, forward, forward - in a distant land where nebushko blue where the river banks are pouring in the milk and honey. You go out on the field and say, "Thank you, God" will find a dead man in the hardened dry mud.
Take his instrument. Ground, as you can. And then - Kosi. Do not take time off, brother mow.
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