Along the path goes
Golden summer.
Passes the river ford,
The bird is whistling somewhere.
Walking, roaming the dew,
Through a colorful meadow,
He wears a rainbow in a scythe,
Braced tight.
Stand up, happily sigh -
The wind will start.
Clouds waving to the clouds -
Warm rain will be shed.
Even the city will visit.
Pogostit - and all right.
Will bring there in handfuls
The air from the mountains is cool.
Whisper of the river, bird whistle,
Light fluff without weight.
On the asphalt - a wet sheet,
Like a letter from the forest.
Writer : Zidorov Nikolay
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