window [Theme] Page 9

There is a cruel saying that when poverty enters the door, love flies out the window.

Was the black Duma,
like a bird of the night
the window middle of the day flew.
How to kick her out - don't know!
Sitting motionless, in silence,
flowers and streams stranger.

Outside the window, where loud children's laughter and bright light - good lives, there is no malice!

Under the rough-the thunder, the lightning is bloody scarlet
You think about what you said insomnia,
Sit and cry in the dark, as if the girl small,
Under the booming thunder that the window was breaking unbidden.
You think that rains on the planet is not eternal
Again the moon from good weather a little drunk
And the storm outside, as a phenomenon so fleeting,
You believe - all again, as always begins anew.

You don't listen to that rain of me whispers deceptive,
And don't believe if Grom knows something about us indecent.
It is only the echo of the storm receding, lazy and bland
And the storm outside - just an old spinster duplicitous.
You don't trust the clouds in the sky flying from the North,
Don't look out the window at a frightening glitter of electricity,
You do not believe in the dark the scent of sweet clover,
You feel me burning in a moment of loneliness.

And then he made me promise never to watch Russian football. And Russian films. And even in the pool.

When I was little, on Sundays we went with grandparents for the city. If we drove past a cemetery, grandpa opened the window and shouted: "any Complaints?" He never received a response and have always said that this is a clear proof that the dead always pleased with everything, and when it was his time, he died peacefully in his bed, without fear and almost without pain.

- Probably, all do not love autumn just because it reminds all of their own. Dying in this world, such a quick and shaky. Or because among all that bright, they feel empty inside.
And winter?
- A New year already, I almost forgot.
It will have to first look inside your shoes, pockets dark gray coat and my mother's pills. He's definitely in there somewhere was lost, lies, sad, crying, as if he someone had died. And he himself dies.
Comes.
Is my favorite holiday, I opened the window, sticking my head in snowflakes-snow-sea, closing her eyes against, like when you talked to me.
And my picks my friend, sniffles, squeezing. Often-often blinking, slowing the speed.
The wind braids my hair and wrists in a hard knot, and I am silent. Follow with their eyes the cloud of snow, ice, no more sugar. Look at the world from under lowered lashes, uzmetall sweaters and fears.

what remains of blue eyes, green eyes -
the sky July, a quiet spring meadow,
in the fence high secret hole
in the secret dungeon of the forbidden hatch
what remains of the black steppe dust,
cold in the stomach, yarn, spindle,
low fog in the morning, in the evening it is warm,
and in the void of the open window...

while she says into the phone: don't remember, for a long time,
the person on the other end becomes December, and, feeling cold,
his neighbor in the apartment on the left slams the window
dissolves hair, dims the light, serene husband
says: what an early winter this year...
until the snow, they will love each other
occasionally listening as the wall in the apartment right chattering darkness,
or in place of the howling Blizzard...

She has many times experienced that sadness chronic sadness Sunday evening when couples get tired of basketball, tennis, walks on the beach or kicking the ball, feel the weight to lean heavily in the evening, when, instead of the game you will have to spend time with electricity, with brats, leftover food, Newspapers propocionada with their tedious wonders and horrors. On those nights, the marriage closes like a flower after sunset, and the rest of Sunday becomes how filthy the window from which is visible Monday and the whole agonizing week, when people will again have to become brokers, dentists, engineers, mothers and Housewives, adults - not guests in this world, and its owners, load-bearing a boring load of responsibilities.

- Yes not it! There's something flies by the window!
And I know what's gonna fly out the window.
- Get down!
- Look! There's something on the floor!
- Yes! Thirty-six thousand dollars of broken glass!
Is a gift box!
- No, wait! What are you doing? First you need to read the card.
- Who will break the window of the penthouse to throw the flash drive?
- I say, read the card!

Not every window where a bright light - comfort and warmth.

Behind every window a worldly life - full of emotions, feelings and experiences.