Everyone has their own attic in their souls,
Closed to uninvited guests
Stored there for a while, somehow,
A tangle of memories and passions.
It would seem a long-obsolete trash,
That dozes in a web of silence
But for some reason, in the evenings
From there, the sounds of secret strings are heard.
And not only in the evenings, but also in the middle of the day, if this day is gray, like evening.
I open a family sad photo album.
Unconstructive activity, I understand it myself.
Especially sad.
It has such an unspoken name, because the one to whom the entire album is dedicated is no longer with us.
But the hands, nevertheless, are drawn precisely to him.
Because I did not know a more positive being than Shola.
I guard the house
and the whole village.
And in ambush I sit to the icicles on my nose
and running in a team
True, not always.
But I work with a snowmobile
and to the fireman.
And playing hide and seek
and I bark at the birds, it’s a pity that I don’t fly.
And with a smile I meet you)))
So maybe we’ll kiss ?!
Pictures taken seven years ago,