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Tatiana Agibalova


In the evening, I used to sit
Relax from important things,
Look, beside me
Mound like blackened.
What is the anthill?
This house ant.
Here the idler or loafer
Will not last a day.
A narrow path
Ants hurrying home.
Pull the leaves behind him,
Branch, the Golden spike.
I thought under the old willow,
Rest from cares:
"Oh, hardworking
This little people".

Poems about insects: sorting
the names of the authors

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