Author of quotes: Nikolai Alekseevich Zabolotsky

We, the Mongols, discipline,
Killed - and you go under the sword.
It turns out that our writings
Not the one to benefit.

Wag language is able, just,
But it is necessary so to wag the tongue,
So the soup is not to be confused with pie
With commas sakovic.

Who I responded to in the forest?
You do that again in the spring
Remembered our past years
Our worries and our troubles,
Our wanderings in a land far away, -
You apalusa my soul?

The weakness is similar to humans,
Love is everlasting affliction.

Only the smell of thyme, dry and bitter,
He breathed on me and this sleepy Crimea,
And the cypress, and the house, pressed
To the surface of the mountain, merged forever with him.
Here the sea is the conductor, and the resonator - given,
Concert high the water is here clear in advance,
This is the sound of hitting the rock, slides vertically
And the echo among the rocks dancing and singing.

In the inevitable feeling of grief,
Waiting for fall minutes
Short-term joy of the sea
Surrounded lovers here.

My umbrella is torn, like the bird
And breaks, popping,
Noise over the world and smokes
The crude hut of the rain.

Tired after work
Just outside the Windows became dark,
Expressing severe concerns
You came somehow in the movie.
In the low room, filled with thick,
You watched everything on the screen
Where tried in vain art
To the truth of life implicate deception.

Wandered around the village, thunderstorms,
And often, full of longing,
Lightning strikes, through tears,
Broke the sky into pieces.
Gushing, as if from baklaga,
And on the collection of birches
The feast of the electricity and moisture
Merged into violent chaos.

What you'll do on paper?
Why are you always so angry?
They are looking for, digging in the darkness
Their failures and offenses?

Steppe winds do not write the laws.

In the morning Russian people
What would it even happened grief
Can't miss. When on the slope
Creaked under valentinyi snow.

And where do you attract me,
Dark, menacing Muse,
On the great roads
The immensity of my Motherland?

Every day on the hillside I
Lost, dear friend,
Vernal days laboratory
Located around.
Each small plant,
Like in cones alive
Moisture sun foams
And boils itself.