Author of quotes: Vladimir Morozov

Yes, Russian I - Smolensk and Tver,
The peasant like the son of margins
With cheerful, as usual, melancholy,
Where I am now the longing owner.
A pensive poet of old age,
Doomed to death, pain nurturing
Not to live, to survive...
And the way to the light
Perhaps, in the Park red walk.

Don't let go verse and holds tightly
On the verge of existence and oblivion:
Voice of the unknown ancestor,
The rustle of autumn stubble,
Then detskou toy, the universe
Some thought that, the fire keeping,
By the river in wilderness village
Suddenly bring the boy to me.

But this confession only game
Not to justify,
But youth rights:
I was your hero forge
Was in those years of love and celebration.

In the green flame of leaves
Barely noticeable white splash -
Bloom lip...
You Keep Silent,
And only in the eyes lies the brilliance
Recent joy
And it
You were happy for a moment.

After all, a poet at heart always a child
And contradictions of my
Only me...
And the world still call
In Nightingale the appearance of dawn,
Surprising.

The world is beautiful, bright and violent,
And how do you eyes look me over
His entire through chrysolites leaves
Emerges the morning blue.
And fog over the plains Plyos
That hung in the silence of the reeds,
Or echo the thousand
Celebrating the day an immortal soul.

I'm immensely lonely lyrics,
Random guest of separation and sorrow.
I once Muse full tilt,
The delight and inspiration, like the future,
Gave me.

In the deserted garden among the lilacs
Dropping petals transparent snow
And next - a house with a porch in three steps
As the memory of the last guardian.

In the October days of desperate melancholy
Again, write the sublime something.
The universal sweep worlds
In the unseen moments of the flight.
I time stop, but...
Suddenly the comfort of the rapture,
Am aware that this is a window
And autumn and rainy, and provolo...

Nobody wants me here
On the edge of the earth
But I still like there
In the sky the cranes.

I remember grandpa's principles,
What on earth in word and work
We live this...
Let the knowledge of a simple,
But it kept Russian house.

Your sorrow is understandable to me, but still
Don't be sorry about how everything went.
We were happier and younger,
And we good, it was almost evil...

You were my salvation,
My gentle angel,
Quiet the breath of the wind,
That diffuses the smoke
Long joyful silence
On the road to nowhere.
You after all despairs
Smiling, as always...

I through the confusion of Russian troubles
Carried miniature poems that
Which was to me like a amulet
And, maybe, save me then...