village [Theme] Page 1

Uncle lives in the village, deeply rooted, satisfied, as it happens when a slight delirium, taken for the melody of life, makes a person happy.

To deny private property to a village is to close it forever.

but close to God.

In the countryside, as we soon found out, neighbors have a much greater influence on your life than in the city. You can live in the same apartment in New York or London for years and never talk to people who live behind a thin wall, some six inches from you.

Leave the capital? Without any reasons? I do not want to go crazy in the village at all, thank you humbly.

Rain over the old village.

Quiet!
They didn't live long.
At once
iron rails shredded on the vein
in the tan of the villages of the cities contagious.
Where the birds sang - plate clatters.
Where the boron was - the area of the hundred-house sodom.

wild - Pushkin gave for preservation to his faithful uncle. According to the testimony of contemporaries, they became known to many gramon courtyards.

On my birthday
life draws a line,
So thank you for everything, Leningrad-Petersburg
And my village,
where in infancy he grew up,
Where I survived,
maybe poetry for...

Seriously speaking, I would certainly try to raise the topic of what is happening with Russia, with the state. I would drive 100 kilometers from Moscow, and rent a village where people are simply dying out, where there is no work, where old people live on retirement, where young people drink too much. And those who do not drink too much, by all means run away from the village to the city. I think it's scary. A fattening Moscow and a dying village are the problem.

It was a village consisting of one street, surrounded by mountains, more or less pitted with the excavations that were carried out for extraction of lead, containing silver ore. Location would be nice, if it is not cut down, for fifty miles around, the forests out of fear that escaped convicts were not hiding;. even the bushes were cut down; in winter the view was dull.

I consider myself city I now.
It's my job, my friends are here.
But as the night I had a dream village
Let me go do not want my native land.

There is a wall of green forest is in June
And in winter the plain is white-white.

There is warm bread smell in our house,
And runs somewhere under the mountain river,
And the way the geese are moving matter
And in the ravine bumblebee shaggy drink the dew from the flower.