He passed the storm, but we carry her conception. Above us are the clouds, which made us happy. We will forever remember that sound with which our nights were drilled. For us big, for others small: our mothers are getting into the nightlife. And the poor, the shrewd ones your crumbs from the Last Supper the prayers of hope were, Maybe the devil did not find us! Why do I remind them today? in bitterness of gathered horrors? At night we dream of mothers, how bread is baked in the oven in the morning.
