seasons [Theme]

And no more, no less.

- They hibernate in winter.

Finally, the spring thunderstorms died down, the summer established itself in its rights, and if before there were unbearable cold weather, now, at the beginning of July, the unbearable heat began to pester.

Under the burden of days, under the snow and rain.

From these spring, winter, summer smells?
Everyone knows the smell of winter or autumn. That's exactly what is mixed in the air, to anywhere - from Moscow to new York, you could maximize the window, and even blind to say! now spring?

Frowning as if just swallowed the upcoming Nov.

The sun, I think you're tired of shining,
Tired to be fair and wise,
I look at your negativity
And repeat monotonous Sutra...
Decreasing the whisper of an hourglass,
Will slip into the sea diamond beads,
You are my most distant dream,
The sweetest and the shortest,
Sleep...

- Come, - sigh - just get a drink. And a moment of silence. Each of us has the time. I will tell banality, but times life is like the seasons, and this is particularly keenly felt in the late autumn. No matter, there shines in this day, almost summer sun or dreary is the last rain. You still know it's autumn. But in any time has its advantages.

Spring is friends with summer, winter with spring in the autumn is always alone!

Each time of year has its own emphasis that we forget as soon as next season.

Each time of year
Enough of its beauty.

Soon November will drive along the rivers and lakes of its diamond nails, scattered diamonds and white velvet and renew the heavenly gwozdecky, gold and silver, on a dark sapphire ceiling of the night sky.

As well in that the four seasons in her self-closed four kingdoms, each separated from the other and in itself whole. There are happy countries in the Pacific, where only two seasons, spring and summer, and the difference between them is the variation of temperature two or three degrees. It really is the most happy, perfect country? Unlikely. There do not know what the white color and the infinite silence of the forests and fields, enthralled by the snow and ice. And there's no expectation of spring, because she always, no place of longing about it and the first joys of a warmer pre-spring breeze, whispering about the mystery of the resurrection, of happiness neobmenennogo date.
There is the South, where confused all seasons, all, there's only three, and only truly full summer and winter is fake, and autumn without the beauty, spring was there with the phantom lasting for a short bit, and now the dream burned. And our spring is like a slow Symphony, which, sakinas uncertain discontinuous sounds, develops the richness of melodies and flourishes, brings vividly-singing the jubilant enthusiasm to intoxication, to savannaha moments when all the birds are singing, all the meadows and forests in color and in loving whispers, and all hearts rejoice in the mystery that is sweet to give the elected heart of Holy Easter kiss or pierced by the convergence of a pagan zeal.
Not because the child not yet born, learns through the mother is a wealth of disjointed kingdoms, artistically a complete change of seasons, in our great country there are writers that have no equal on the Earth, have arisen the poets who have been given the sweetest and zvuchaschee songs originated millions of souls who know how to love not only the easy pleasure of joy and happiness, but also a great variety of tempting delight of pain and suffering, the delight of a voluntary sacrifice, which leads to the storm and the rainbow.

I say that there is no bad weather,
But how to live when a year two months of heat?!
I can't, I'm sorry, I want freedom!
So in balance to live their year.