Winter quietly sheds its white color, dogs sing song known. Birds call them with a tender voice, the latest autumn colors fall off. And I'm still there, the same flower, powerlessly return the warm beam - the summer, the sun, the polar horses, I miss everything and the baby's tongue. Nestled in its tender petals, expecting a fire of burning fire, quietly, curled up in a little curl, the days I leave this calendar.
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