You know, in fact, you’re in the wrong,
When dub the wild a boring sorrow.
And chopping tree trunks in a throng,
We chop off hands of our tomorrow.
Since when, you simply try to tell,
You went to breathe some forest air?
Through panes it's possible to smell
The chimney’s burner out there.
How comes a hundred times per day
Concrete and petrol we respire.
While feeding on the Moon away,
From drafts on balconies we dire.
But what if on the side of yon,
Where motley grass is sweetly smelling,
A nature’s home we'll settle on,
As a key pillar of our dwelling?
We longed for warmth in wintertide,
And now can walk half-dressed like crazy!
So push domestic chores aside
And give a kiss to a wild daisy.
Ozone, as yet, is not on sales,
And buttercups aren’t insecure,
Let’s hark, my friend, to birdies’ tales,
Where alpine strawberries mature.
Appeal
© Copyright: Александр Нагний, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126012207056
Свидетельство о публикации №126012207056
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