Blizzards in memory of years
Clouds are floating through puddles, the last snow has withered away, and the pines hold the blue on bronze shoulders. The streams sing in every way, that everything is in your hands, important rooks are walking in shabby frock coats. The rains turn into pearl dew, snowstorms - in memory of years, I, like the fire of love, carry bouquet of crimson roses. Take the flowers, I, without breathing, I'll hear it - it's hot... and a rock dove soul - on a white shoulder. Valery Mazmanyan