Everything is so beautiful, the way to the home is taken, the spine holds the Balkan with generations, he lived for centuries. Meadows smell the grass mown, set-aside and chernozem, the seedlings sown deep in the ground, their head is already confident. Thick sheets of flowers dissolved, enjoy a peaceful sky, roots firmly buried, He greeted them warmly with his hands. Scarlet poppies with greasy lips and with soft satin wings, rising from the tears of the Clerk weeping wild fires burn everywhere. Collect bee nectar from the linden, smell of nettles and elder, birds fly in the celestial fields as if, a sign of recent rain. The famous road to the river leads me obsolete, increasingly difficult, Sunflower therapy rocks May, meditating on Chi Prana even. A swarm of butterflies on a meadow creeps as the children of the sweet, dandelions and daisies pick up hah, habit ... again, my mother's bouquet has shrunk. Slow down, the reluctant sunset in the networks of shadows lies, Firefighters will soon light the lamps, and violin crickets will play. The evening chill of the forest, the well-known spring bubbled in, I lean against the spout and drink, thankful that I was again in childhood.
