Sidorov Leonid Biography

Spring has long passed, many years have passed. But the life of the past did not dare, and the same light shines. I see her often again, then in the Duma, then in a dream, and a chain of wonderful love oh, explain to me the meaning of the chains and days of my spring; I have to love all people - I love only one. I will answer: only love is only the basis, the purpose of life and happiness.

Oh, be ready, the soul, without a doubt to accept her meekly. And whoever does not have time to open the doors before her, he quickly ages, and the terrible animals surround him, torment, bite - and destroy forever. Where there is no sparks of love, there is eternal grief. Believe, happiness in love is only like pearls - only in the sea.

Love, not counting, immensely, immensely, radiantly, deeply, completely, perfectly, and a lot, and strong, and hot, and passionately. And wherever you are: here, there, or distinguished, - only know one thing, love only deeply! He loves the one whose love is not in vain and in which there is no suffering. The one who kisses everything who always receives an answer loves.

Who love only to his beloved, who always sleeps in his arms, who, not languid with his love, looks at the world with joyful eyes. Those who possess his whole happiness, in whom blood always burns, who knows enjoyment in love, whose love is not deceived here. Whose spring here passed unprushed, who warmed up and warmed in love, who merged with his beloved passionately, who was impudent, and strong, and dare!

Those who were not only with a verse, but also could live with his beloved, who was not only in his soul, but he could also be with her, always merging, to be. Only this love here is blank, not weak, not pale, not poor. Only this love is only possible, only in it only life and spring! Otherwise, all life, believe, here is boredom. And spring is not spring, light is not light. Otherwise, love here is only flour, otherwise there is no happiness in it.

What do you call light, my dear, then not the light, but deep darkness. And what your chest is full now, that you call you love, my friend, then believe me, not at all - not love, but a cruel ailment. This is the nonsense of a sick soul, this fire has declared you passion. And you did not know love, great love-and you did not know her breath. And why are you wandering everything in the night?

Why are you in the sun, you, my friend? Believe: his unearthly rays healed your heavy ailment. Of course, you have never seen how magical it is good! How big eyes shine with love, and you can’t take your eyes off them! A thunderstorm was not played over you love, and you cannot understand that love. Do not forget me a magical thoughtful gaze, you won’t wipe the image wonderful.

So why are you sending your cruel reproach and call my death to my death? And why do I tell my sun? The bright sun is dark to me and the bright sun. And do you yourself are so often repeating here: one only needs one? And your love is darkness, and not joyful light, not the rays of a luminous day. These are the patients of the patient with a cruel passion, it is a ghost of the sick among silence, it is the darkness of hopeless heavy power, it is death for the dead soul.

The Cross is a saint and the hell before you. You now look at him and believe that with a heavy struggle we need to go in the world. Such a cross forms grain, and then freely it will forever go to the sun forever. It is necessary to cure a heavy ailment, everything that prevents here, to burn a short, friend, and not to part of the insignificant earth, you must have a desire - to one thing from the world in the distance, you must certainly fly.