You are forever young.
wind in the field, a star in the sky.

My fields are far away. Deserted and alone.
Far away is a small, rocky world.
And you are far away. Between us
are foreign faces and delusions of years gone by.

Love the grass, the soft ones,
that rustle on the plain,
quietly, softly like in the heart
half-forgotten memories.

Return, birds, return this home
the smell of the people and bring it into it
with the warmth of the south, the olive of peace...

Let me not pass you by,
May my hand find you,
pearl, and listens,
how locked into a narrow world
the trapped soul of the ocean breathes.

Happiness is not in the head and not in power
and not if you have a mountain of gold under your thumb.
Happiness is when work is done well.
and if you love someone.

A small, very small song went
about the first dusk
along a narrow path
and got lost in the green field.
Who knows, it smells like trumpets now,
or after poppy,
smells like cornflowers,
or after all that is lost?

So run. Simple as a river.
From the source to the mouth.
And not to forget how beautiful the willow branches are,
Where the wind hides songs,
and horizons unreachable.

In spring to the rose flower,
in summer to ripe wheat,
in autumn to full shelves,
in winter to the Snow Queen,
in the book to the last line,
in life to the real truth.
But if you don't come the first time or the second time
to the deck and the real deck,
try again and again and again.

I went towards the evening
and I was alone that evening.

It is not salt. It is a salty tear of pain,
which lies over and over, over all the salt pans.

Stay with me, bird,
does not fly to the south side,
when silence grows over me;
I wouldn't want to die alone.

In the heart, if it is true,
there is always room
for a thousand noble things,
who must love
everything that lives.

You are in the world to look at the sun,
You are in the world to follow the sun,
You are in the world, you are the sun yourself

Come, my love, for the evening.
to me in the dreaming hills,
It invites you all, it calls you all:
earth, flowers, darkness and peace.

To live.
Always to the end.
Survive.
Start from the beginning.
So what's the reason?
if the world is not flat!
Whatever happens will happen.
and something else.

Mom is an angel herself,
but he doesn't need an angel.
She is given the task,
to protect others.

Every person is a world unto themselves.
strange, bright and beautiful
like a star in the sky...
Everyone quietly matures,
slowly and over the years,
but wherever you go, all the way
it is necessary to start anew.

One said Yes,
The other replied Yes.
and they clasped hands,
and he – the angel of marriage
repeats the song for them
about love
from the true source – High Songs.

Every mother is a real mother,
given for happiness and joy.
Real.
And alone.
For life.

When you walk,
Always go all the way.
In spring to the rose flower,
in summer to ripe wheat,
in autumn to a full shelf,
in winter to the Snow Queen,
in the book to the last line,
in life to the true truth,
inside to the point of redness across one cheek and the other.
But if you don't come the first time, or the second time
to the deck and the right hammer
try: again and again and again.

In the heart, if it is true,
there is always room
for a thousand noble things,
who must love
everything that lives.

You are in the world to watch the sun.
You are in the world to follow the sun.
You are in the world, you are the sun yourself
and that you drive away shadows from the world.

Every day the world begins anew.
This is how the book is put together.
This is how life celebrates
its fruit and flower.

But happiness is not in the head and not in the distance,
Not a treasure in your pocket or under your thumb.
Happiness is when work is done well.
And if you love someone.
Then two happinesses burn within you.
Two suns in the heart. Two lights.
From them the light is spread around you,
when you are wandering for a star, for yourself, for your goal.

Life, great, high, eternal,
I call you: Good day!
And I offer you a hand for happiness
a joint wandering somewhere...

Everyone is quietly maturing,
slowly and over the years,
but wherever you go, all the way
it is necessary to start anew.

We would like to run across green lawns
for the colorful happiness of yellow butterflies,
We would like to grow like grass, like fir trees,
Gazed at the clouds, listened to songs
of birth, of love, of love, of life...

Not everything is as carefree and happy as it seems.
For many, life has become a habit of making people hurt.
And they don't go forward, but there's no going back.
Like a tree in a place, they count their days...
(There at the end of the field)