Book: Pen test. Page 1

I life say that I'm tired,
all the main completed, the rest live
and respect for old age, resigned to asking.
I don't tend to climb on the podium
captivating enchantment only say,
and teeth though will shrink, but is unlikely to bite.

Happiness does not go away, and turns sideways,
to better reveal the profile
him, trying as best;
a man walks around the room, looking out of the Windows,
warm the chilled Turkish coffee
as would be for anybody, but just in case.

Night fail,
but lift up a prayer of thanks,
that did not live even to old age,
he didn't the courage
and never rushed into battle.

A man goes on the road
wiping cheeks tears,
and not see his happiness,
standing on the roadside,
modestly downcast eyes,
and very waiting for something.

Rasprostranyatsya
almost half of the world
my land, my country
I did not Supplement with formula.

One of us is in fact interesting
someone else's life? Excitement and shame,
a strange mixture of doubt and offense,
mental Hvorost lingering song?
Will he find the meaning of mystery
the intricacies of adversity,
which is getting closer and more dangerous
and besides death there is no deliverance?
Look in my heart the flicker of hope
rinse the winds the sail,
and stars scattering into the empty skies
send Shine a careless hand.
And guiding them on the required path
someone else's soul, of her forget.

All the days as days - a dull procession
run, a barely audible rustling steps,
already-read history page
the dust of Eternity, History nothing.
There's grief has worn off, and anxiety long
a familiar chill fades, doesn't sound;
there is a Time muffled sotvorila shutters
and on the roads puts "bricks".

Easier long to convince the mosquito
what's buzzing at night unethical
than finally Wake up
and to kill the annoying bastard.

No ordinary words.
Ordinary people,
souls who do not know of witchcraft.

I was brushing my thoughts
as the groom - thoroughbred horse
and so they kick.

A blank day is not prone to doubts;
crib life - he did not verse;
familiar vows drawn,
I spent it without regret.

I love spring, the murmur of the brook,
appreciate, when it comes to grace,
and the angel who watches over me,
try not to tire too.

I'm so attached to life, to the hustle and bustle.
Mystery Sunday lunch
dearer the heavenly spheres and grace them.

The calf does not know that he is
calf. Do not count the number of legs,
not aware of the presence of the tail.