Rada, glad to, glad to
bright birch,
And they joy
grow roses.

Rada, glad to, glad to
dark aspen,
And they joy
grow oranges.

It does not rain went from the cloud
And no city,
Then poured out of the cloud

And the ravens over fields
Suddenly singing nightingales.

And streams from the earth
Sweet honey flowed.

Chickens began surfactants,
Bald - curly.

Even the mill - and that
Zaplyasala the bridge.

So run the same for me
On green meadows,
Where I become blue on the river
Rose rainbow-arc.

We are on the rainbow
Play in the clouds
And from there down over the rainbow
on the skids, on skates!

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Korney Chukovsky
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