... Just a Dreams
У нее были крылья. А он не хотел верить.
А он и знать об этом не хотел. Спуская ее каждое утро с лиловых облаков, он говорил:
- Не выдумывай, глупышка. Ты не умеешь летать.
А она не обижалась. И снова улетала. Бродила одиноко по облакам, бросала солнце как мяч. Ловила мечты людей и играла ими словно песком, пропуская их сквозь нежные пальцы. Но приходил он.
Он был старше ее, он не умел летать. Он находил ее, потому что у него были связи. Она убегала от него, игриво смеясь и окунаясь в очередное облако. А ему стоило щелкнуть пальцами, как две большие, хищные птицы, останавливали ее.
У нее была детская душа. Она любила полевые ромашки. Он находил тону ромашек. Осыпая ее с ног до головы. Но она не смеялась. Она смотрела на них. Крупные, садовые, бездушные цветы веяли холодом также как и он.
Она была ветром. Каждую ночь летела она к звездам, отправляя им воздушные поцелуи. Звезды сплетали ей венок и предлагали остаться с ними. Но приходил он.
- Не выдумывай, глупышка. Ты не ветер, - говорил он.
Она любила дождь. Она пробиралась сквозь капли, к самому сердцу дождя. Она была радугой. Она рисовала ее цвета, окуная кисть в лужи. Она рисовала город.
- Не выдумывай, глупышка. Ты не радуга, - говорил он.
У нее было сердце поэта. Она подбрасывала его в облака и окунала в воду. Она любила поэзию…
- Не выдумывай, глупышка, - говорил он. - Ты не поэт.
Она любила рисовать. Окунет как-то кисть в акварель и нарисует закат. Потом подарит его людям. Но приходил он:
- Не выдумывай, глупышка. Ты не художник.
Однажды она улетела. Улетела навсегда. Оставив крылья. А может, ушла. Босиком, собирая ромашки и вплетая их в волосы. Он остался один…
Он брал ее кисти и пробовал рисовать закат. «Я не художник», - подумал он.
Он пробовал писать стихи. Рвал бумагу и думал: «Нет, я не поэт».
Он рвал ромашки, смотрел на звезды, раскрашивал радугу, окуная кисть в лужи. Ходил по лиловым облакам. Потом взял ее крылья. Встал на самое высокое облако. Рванулся вниз.«Я не умею летать», - подумал он...
She has had the wings. But he hasn't wanted to believe. She has knew how to fly. But he hasn't wanted to know about this. When he was lowering her from the purple clouds every morning, he talked:
"Silly, don't think up. You don't know how to fly."
She was not offended. She left again. She wandered alone through the clouds. She has throwing out the sun like a ball. She has catching dreams of the people and has played in them like in sand, has letting them pass through the gentle fingers...
But he had come.
He was older than her, and he couldn't fly. He has found her, because he has had a connection. She was ran away from his, laughing playfully and plunging into another cloud. But he would snap his fingers, and two big birds of prey stopped her.
She had soul of a child. She loved field of chamomile. He was finding a lot of daisies for her. He showered her with flowers from head to toe. But she wasn't laughing. She was just looking at them. Those were large soulless flowers, which were cold as well as he.
She was like the wind. Every night she flew away to the stars, was sending them kisses. The stars weaved a wreath for her and were offering to stay with them...
But he had come.
"Silly, don't think up. You aren't wind" - he talked.
She has loved the rain. She moved through the drops, to the heart of the rain. She was like rainbow. She has painted it colors, has dipping the brush into the puddle. She painted the city...
"Silly, don't think up. You aren't rainbow" - he talked.
She had the heart of a poet. She tossed it to clouds, and plunged it into the water. She loved poetry.
"Silly, don't think up" - he talked. "You aren't a poet."
She loved to draw. Somehow she has dipped the brush in watercolor and has painted a sunset. Then she gave away it to people...
But he had came.
"Silly, don't think up. You aren't an artist" - he talked.
One day she flew away. She flew away forever. But she left her wings. Maybe she went away on foot. Barefoot, collecting chamomile and weaving them into the hair...
He remained alone.
He took her paints and tried to draw sunset. "I'm not an artist" - he thought. He tried to write verses. He tore up the paper and thought - "No, I'm not a poet". He tore up the daisies, he looked at the stars, he tried to draw a rainbow, dipping the brush into the puddle. He tried to walk into the purple clouds...
Then he took hold of her wings. He stood up on the highest cloud. He dived down...
"I don't know how to fly" - he thought...
А он и знать об этом не хотел. Спуская ее каждое утро с лиловых облаков, он говорил:
- Не выдумывай, глупышка. Ты не умеешь летать.
А она не обижалась. И снова улетала. Бродила одиноко по облакам, бросала солнце как мяч. Ловила мечты людей и играла ими словно песком, пропуская их сквозь нежные пальцы. Но приходил он.
Он был старше ее, он не умел летать. Он находил ее, потому что у него были связи. Она убегала от него, игриво смеясь и окунаясь в очередное облако. А ему стоило щелкнуть пальцами, как две большие, хищные птицы, останавливали ее.
У нее была детская душа. Она любила полевые ромашки. Он находил тону ромашек. Осыпая ее с ног до головы. Но она не смеялась. Она смотрела на них. Крупные, садовые, бездушные цветы веяли холодом также как и он.
Она была ветром. Каждую ночь летела она к звездам, отправляя им воздушные поцелуи. Звезды сплетали ей венок и предлагали остаться с ними. Но приходил он.
- Не выдумывай, глупышка. Ты не ветер, - говорил он.
Она любила дождь. Она пробиралась сквозь капли, к самому сердцу дождя. Она была радугой. Она рисовала ее цвета, окуная кисть в лужи. Она рисовала город.
- Не выдумывай, глупышка. Ты не радуга, - говорил он.
У нее было сердце поэта. Она подбрасывала его в облака и окунала в воду. Она любила поэзию…
- Не выдумывай, глупышка, - говорил он. - Ты не поэт.
Она любила рисовать. Окунет как-то кисть в акварель и нарисует закат. Потом подарит его людям. Но приходил он:
- Не выдумывай, глупышка. Ты не художник.
Однажды она улетела. Улетела навсегда. Оставив крылья. А может, ушла. Босиком, собирая ромашки и вплетая их в волосы. Он остался один…
Он брал ее кисти и пробовал рисовать закат. «Я не художник», - подумал он.
Он пробовал писать стихи. Рвал бумагу и думал: «Нет, я не поэт».
Он рвал ромашки, смотрел на звезды, раскрашивал радугу, окуная кисть в лужи. Ходил по лиловым облакам. Потом взял ее крылья. Встал на самое высокое облако. Рванулся вниз.«Я не умею летать», - подумал он...
She has had the wings. But he hasn't wanted to believe. She has knew how to fly. But he hasn't wanted to know about this. When he was lowering her from the purple clouds every morning, he talked:
"Silly, don't think up. You don't know how to fly."
She was not offended. She left again. She wandered alone through the clouds. She has throwing out the sun like a ball. She has catching dreams of the people and has played in them like in sand, has letting them pass through the gentle fingers...
But he had come.
He was older than her, and he couldn't fly. He has found her, because he has had a connection. She was ran away from his, laughing playfully and plunging into another cloud. But he would snap his fingers, and two big birds of prey stopped her.
She had soul of a child. She loved field of chamomile. He was finding a lot of daisies for her. He showered her with flowers from head to toe. But she wasn't laughing. She was just looking at them. Those were large soulless flowers, which were cold as well as he.
She was like the wind. Every night she flew away to the stars, was sending them kisses. The stars weaved a wreath for her and were offering to stay with them...
But he had come.
"Silly, don't think up. You aren't wind" - he talked.
She has loved the rain. She moved through the drops, to the heart of the rain. She was like rainbow. She has painted it colors, has dipping the brush into the puddle. She painted the city...
"Silly, don't think up. You aren't rainbow" - he talked.
She had the heart of a poet. She tossed it to clouds, and plunged it into the water. She loved poetry.
"Silly, don't think up" - he talked. "You aren't a poet."
She loved to draw. Somehow she has dipped the brush in watercolor and has painted a sunset. Then she gave away it to people...
But he had came.
"Silly, don't think up. You aren't an artist" - he talked.
One day she flew away. She flew away forever. But she left her wings. Maybe she went away on foot. Barefoot, collecting chamomile and weaving them into the hair...
He remained alone.
He took her paints and tried to draw sunset. "I'm not an artist" - he thought. He tried to write verses. He tore up the paper and thought - "No, I'm not a poet". He tore up the daisies, he looked at the stars, he tried to draw a rainbow, dipping the brush into the puddle. He tried to walk into the purple clouds...
Then he took hold of her wings. He stood up on the highest cloud. He dived down...
"I don't know how to fly" - he thought...