wet and smells permeated town forest breeze brushes my face and combed hair, and I myself mumble the devil as a whistle - mniamusne, mniamusne ...
wind, this whimsical messenger, who hurls us how he wishes, przetrzepie black thoughts, the dusty recesses of whom already do not want, or we are afraid to look.
Today is mild, responsive, and oh, so fragrant ... as well, the wind is masculine ...
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