Chapter 2 2

people who don't like it say it Just a mutant violin Kicked out of the chorus. it's not true. The cello has many secrets, But it never whimpers, And just sing in a low voice. But not everything becomes Song.sometimes you hear A whisper or whisper: I'm very lonely, I can not sleep. three angels suddenly appeared Here, next to this bakery on St George Street. Why don't we do the census again? A tired man sighed. No, said the first angel patiently, we just want to see how is your life, What's it like to live, and why Your nights are always full of restlessness and fear.

Yes, fear, a lovely, dreamy-eyed The woman answered; but I know why. The human mind can't hold it anymore. they seek what they cannot find help and support.sir, please take a look —she called the angel "Sir"! —— Go Wittgenstein.our philosopher And leaders are melancholy lunatics, They know even better than we do Ordinary people are less (but she can not normal). Also, one is studying The boy with the violin said that at night It's just an empty cardboard box, A coffin without mystery, And at dawn, the universe looks As boring and unfamiliar as a TV screen.

Also, those who love the music itself Very few. Others spoke, lamented It surged and swelled into an angry sonata. If you sir want to know the truth, A tall student shouted—he just Losing Mother - Enough Is Enough Death and cruelty, persecution, disease, Viper's eyes glazed over long dull.We have too little land, Too much fire.We don't know who we are. We're lost in the forest, black stars moving lazily over our heads, as if They are just our dreams. However, the second angel still responded shyly, There is always a little joy, beautiful things even close at hand, at every hour's

Beneath the sound of barking, in a mind that is focused and quiet, Also, each of us hides someone else— Universal, powerful, unyielding. wild roses sometimes radiate Tastes of childhood, and on holiday, girls As always, go out for a walk, The way they wrap their scarves with some kind of eternal meaning. Memory lives in the ocean, in the galloping blood, In black, burning stone, in poetry, In every quiet conversation. The world is the same as before, Full of shadows and anticipation. He could have gone on like this, but the crowd getting bigger and bigger, silent Waves of Rage Spread

Until the messengers finally floated up gently, into the air, as they fade away Keep repeating in low voices: May you be at peace, May the living, the dead, and the unborn be at peace. Only the third angel said nothing, Because he is the long silent angel. I read a Chinese poem, Written a thousand years ago. author talks all night It's raining, the raindrops are hitting the bamboo canopy of his boat, and his heart finally Gained peace. It's November again, a Foggy leaden dusk, Is this just a coincidence? Another is alive, Is this just a coincidence? Poets attach great importance to

awards and success, but one autumn after another Tore the leaves from those proud trees, if there is anything left It's just the sound of rain in their poems whisper, Neither sad nor happy. Only pure is invisible, And at dusk, taking advantage of light and shadow when you forget us for a while Move the mystery around in a hurry. the country's rivers are sweet like a troubadour's song, The heavy sun wanders westward, Ride in a yellow circus carriage. country church Open a piece of silent silk Old and thin, just take a breath Will tear it up too. I like swimming in the sea, the sea is always

Talk to yourself in a monotonous voice Like a tramp, no more Can't remember exactly how long he's been on the road. Swimming is like praying: Palms closed and opened again, closed and opened, Almost never-ending. That was childhood, never coming back—— The berries are so dark that the night envies; Slender poplars rise from the narrow river, Like a good nun, not afraid of strangers. From the balcony I can see a little street and two trees, But I'm also the emperor, listen without worry My countless armies roar, Captured Turkish battle flags flutter. I like the smell of grass between my teeth,

Bitter maple leaf, the first one in the mouth Sweet and sour strawberries in June. Mother makes real coffee on Sunday mornings, The old priest in the church was at war with pride. My heart aches whenever I see poor people. Blue and yellow countries live in the map; Big powers swallow small ones, but on postage stamps You see only quiet eagles, zebras, Giraffes, and breathtakingly beautiful tits. On the dusty shelves of that dark store Jar of sticky candies piled up. As soon as it was opened, swarms of red moths flew out. I'm a Boy Scout who knows loneliness in the woods, When dusk falls and the owl hoots,

The branches of the oak tree creaked ominously. I read knight novels, Russian folk tales and Xiankevich's endless trilogy. My father built me ​​a tiny mill, It spins rapidly in the mountain stream. My bike runs faster than a steaming train, The August heat melts the city into ice cream. Berries so dark...bitter maple leaves... That was childhood.A time of blood and feast.