I was sorry, I was walking, I met dark and colorful paintings, I wrote poems, miscellaneous, of fear, I was tired of my rhymes ... I'm sorry for the summer, and the sun - it burns me, I'm used to this frost, when I say, roughly caressing me, pity me - give a glass of water, I want with her the fear to drink, if you do not, even one drop, in the rain I will take away!
