The sun sat on the distant steppes, The first month came on the heel. There are wide seas, wind and sand The market is open right up to Christmas. Grandma sitting on a low donkey: From heaven to valley - monthly cap. Little apples lean against viburnum... My mother's apples are the same. Grandma says: “Try...” But they are not in a hurry to take apples. “There’s a lot of money on them, grandma, you can’t make money, Marvel, I’ll tell you how the balls should lie.” “And truthfully, like balls. There are only so many greens, And everything about me is erysipelas, except for the color.” “Praise, praise,” my grandmother’s aunt laughs, “ It’s better for me to take it.” Soon Stozhari will burn in the sky And sit on the estuary in the heat of the fog... And I’m from the monthly bazaar I’m coming from my mother’s garden with apples. From that garden, where everything is most beautiful, God blessed the skin, It’s simple, don’t be proud of happiness, Everything comes to life, as long as we live. Rocks erase dates and expose The trees have aged and matured... Everything passes, except eternity does not pass - The Lord gives the hour back. Happy, joyless childishness, There is no unloving superficiality, The vantage of problems that are far-fetched cannot be seen... And mother’s apples have that unforgettable taste. For a long time now the garden has been silent And my mother has been in Heaven for a long time. That through the summer, the roads and the bad weather Live near your mother’s beauty.
