Bereestov biography photo

Koshkin puppy was a cat's son - not a kitten, but a puppy, a very cute, very modest, very affectionate son. Without water and without washing the cat was washed; Instead of a sponge, instead of soap with a tongue, a son of a soap. The tongue quickly licks the neck, back and barrel. A cat -mother is a very clean animal. But the son’s son grew up, and now he is a huge dog. The poor mother can’t wash the shaggy verzil.

There are not enough tongue on the huge sides. To wash his neck to his son, you need to fit him on his back. You splash it yourself, bathe yourself, wash yourself without a mother. The son bathes in the river. Mom is asleep in the sand. The song of the frogs we have eyes, like diamonds, and the skin of the color of the emerald. And we are born three times, and this, brothers, is just a miracle.

The icrinka is small in a lump, and a tadpoles in a frisky flock, and now a frog on a bump sits or rides a lawn on a lawn. She rushed into the ice - and again alive. Here's a frog! We breathe gills like fish. We breathe light like people. Like birds, we could fly. But it’s better to sing like birds, we will! Of course, good trills sometimes take these birds!

But we were the first to sang when they were not in the world. Years, Milion, or maybe two heard the world one “kv-kva! We have jumping knees, we have membranes on our paws. Of course, we are cold, but our songs are so melted. We are stupid in your fables, but in your fairy tales we are princesses! Become a queen - kv -kva! Reign the power of magic! Listen lesson “And then guys, a leaf fall lesson.

Therefore, there is no need to return to the classroom. The call will nickname, dress soon and wait for me near the school doors! And in puddles from the Louge of Foliage, there was a foliage! On the Christmas trees dark in the undergrowth, maple stars are burning, as suspensions are on the most beautiful sheet in the veins of raspberry in gold. Remember everything how the earth falls asleep, and the wind falls asleep with foliage.

” And in the grove of maple light and light. All new leaves fly off branches. We play and wear under the leaf fall with a sad, thoughtful woman nearby. He recalls with gold about this childhood almost with shame. Forget it soon! After all, it is in the heroic biography a spot. How good to be able to read!

No need to pester mom, no need to go to my grandmother: - Read, please! No need to call. No need to wait. And you can take and read! I can’t be implicitly smart and implicitly bold. Under the truth, hiding a lie, under a lie of truth - I think an excessive business. I write what I want. What I want, I’ll say anything about that. Well, the subtext, in the difference from the catch, is not given to the poems, but the author, but the era.

Return from the east and there in the steppe - a bonfire of a cooled ash ... we are at home. The steppe is not visible from here. And yet, although we left the steppe, she does not want to leave of us. We are also a steppe. We are similar to her tan and weathery of the skin, and the fact that we carry silence in the heart, and what we see in the city of the moon.

We also wakes us up in the middle of the night somewhere, with an invisible beam, touching his eyes, three hours before the local dawn, the steppe sun, rising without us. Away, in the crowd among the whirlpool, again, let it be weaker than yesterday, a sudden nap will overtake us, ”the steppe night whispers:“ It's time to sleep. ” But little by little everything will become in place: climb, hift, and view, and complexion.

And the steppe? She will leave, melt, sink, and yet she will not get to the end. An old friend will appear, remind you, and again the steppe will fill you with. The first friend of the once primitive children went into the primitive forest, and the primitive sun looked at them from heaven. And the children met in often an unknown animal, which they have never seen yet. The primitive dad said: “Well, play with him.

When he becomes more, we will eat him together. ” Primitive people sleep primitive sleep, and primitive wolves sneak in the darkness of the night. The trouble with primitive people, so defenseless in a dream. How often the animal belly was made by them! But sensing the evil cannibals, hesitated a brave animal, and this removed the primitive people from death. He began to hunt with dad when he grew up.

So a friend became a funny and faithful dog. The firefly in my hands is a furry worm. He is lucky with a greenish light. And his name is the guys - a firefly. So shine is brighter, small! It is a pity that in childhood I did not have to find you! I would say: “This is my firefly! I would put you in a box, and I could not fall asleep with joy. Because I did not find you that my mother put to bed too on time?

Is it because he was cowardly in childhood and did not roam the forest in the forest in the forest? No, I wandered, evil wizards spite. Obviously, I was not lucky then. And then the flaming July came. The roar of explosions. The shine of tracing bullets. Leaving the darkened town, trains reached for the east. I lost my childhood somewhere in the way ... So shine brighter, small!

Walks with Chukovsky G. I am fourteen years old, and he is sixty. He is huge, and gray, and blush, and nosat. He grieves about his son. I am sad without father. May blooms. And the war is not visible. He carefully solves my fate and looks anxiously at my thinness. Tomorrow morning he rushes to save me. In the meantime, he shows how to write. And he will read poetry to me that the great poet composed about the love of twenty -seven years, he will remember what is still waiting for me ahead.

About poetry!