Lay down winter, and white nightingalesZatohkaly cold lips.In the cold ground vzulysya groves.And the sky near a stand. Skotsyurbyvs tail oak leaves,Forty of hawthorn drives sky eyeAnd the wind the wind writes letterSorochy eye Whitie writes, What looked grove of land and standing,What nightingales malily as morelky,A Kyiv like mad, kissingAt the steppes of one's village, alien, little. What am I to you one more snowWinters Fortunately, as the letter.Foot on the road. Wind from under his feet.And our remembrance - poppies in the cradle.вот держи
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