I invite you to have nice arrangement, November will be soon, Poem Mr. November From Wanda Chotomska There is a house, different from all houses - it has weeping windows, it has two weeping gutters. There is a willow tree growing in front of the house, weeping, of course, it cries with silver tears and loses its tearful leaves. And in the house, Mr. Listopad is constantly sitting at the table, wiping the dust with a handkerchief and making umbrellas. He doesn't want to eat, he can't sleep, he doesn't wash, he doesn't shave and he only cries bitterly over each of the umbrellas. He has become haggard, blackened, emaciated, looks worse and worse, and cannot go for a walk. It can't continue like this! One of the umbrellas finally got tired of this life, so at night, it silently unfolded its black wing. He slightly opened the shutter with a bone hand and flew out into the street together with Listopad. They flew over the rooftops and made circles, circled the gardens, flowed through the alleys. And those who saw them said that, allegedly, November wiped the eyes of the houses with his own handkerchief. He apparently stroked the weeping willow's hair tenderly and then wiped the noses of the gutters for a very long time. And he cried, he cried, and he couldn't stop crying. although soon he was soaked from all the crying. And who knows, maybe he finally drowned in his own tears, because in the morning an umbrella was found over the puddle.
I invite you to have nice arrangement, November will be soon, Poem Mr. November From Wanda Chotomska There is a house, different from all houses - it has weeping windows, it has two weeping gutters. There is a willow tree growing in front of the house, weeping, of course, it cries with silver tears and loses its tearful leaves. And in the house, Mr. Listopad is constantly sitting at the table, wiping the dust with a handkerchief and making umbrellas. He doesn't want to eat, he can't sleep, he doesn't wash, he doesn't shave and he only cries bitterly over each of the umbrellas. He has become haggard, blackened, emaciated, looks worse and worse, and cannot go for a walk. It can't continue like this! One of the umbrellas finally got tired of this life, so at night, it silently unfolded its black wing. He slightly opened the shutter with a bone hand and flew out into the street together with Listopad. They flew over the rooftops and made circles, circled the gardens, flowed through the alleys. And those who saw them said that, allegedly, November wiped the eyes of the houses with his own handkerchief. He apparently stroked the weeping willow's hair tenderly and then wiped the noses of the gutters for a very long time. And he cried, he cried, and he couldn't stop crying. although soon he was soaked from all the crying. And who knows, maybe he finally drowned in his own tears, because in the morning an umbrella was found over the puddle.
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