┬а

"What Color is the rain you see" Poems from NaPoWriMo 2022 Day Four



Rain washes over the pomegranate battlefield by Aadrit Banerjee

The coagulated

blood thaws,

deliquesces, as the

rain washes over

the pomegranate

battlefield. The rain

glissades across

the blue horizon,

sensuously, like

your lips moving

down my scarred

chest tracing the

horrors of police

brutality. It descends

with an aphrodisiac

vigor over the couples,

in coitus, buried

beneath the fresh ruins

of Mariupol. Emaciated

bodies, infected,

deceived by an apathetic

government, turn cold

over smouldering

funeral pyres, and

sleep peacefully in the

rain-fed lassitude;

a mute Ganga flows

by, pregnant with floating

corpses and deities

sculpted in clay. The

raindrops shimmer on the

divisive temple walls,

purblind judicial scales

and on our broken

spectacle frames. Blood-

crimson, kingshuk-hued

rain endlessly

cascades down the skies,

your eyes and mine, red

silent tears of eternity тАУ

falling helplessly

across barbed wire

fences, besmirching

ink-marks on paper maps.


Rain goes puddle hunting by Shriti Chowdhary

"We're out of groceries",

Thunder calls out,

"No oceans this time,

My blood pressure

is galloping at 210 miles per hour and

I hate inhaling whale snout."

"Take Zelda too", my wife flashes

a wicked smile

"Enjoy your father-son retreat,

While I bake some cookies

Soaked in country wine"


We embark on estates unknown

Watching sunsets from water slides

Dipping toes in freshwater lakes

The smell of fish a welcome sight

We swim in balcony jacuzzis

Mediate on ice glaciers

Moments before the crack.

Play tic-tac-toe on wet rocks

Near babbling brooks,

I buy a coconut (not really)

And sip on it with bamboo straws

Zelda insists we jump on

tiny puddles, too small for our paws,

1 2 3.....

Splish, splash, splish.


At last, we chose our

Dinner, skydiving headfirst

On the leeward side

Of the mountain,

As we gobbled with all our might,

Rainbows breaking out

At the prism of light

I realize I'm no color

To the human eye,

I'm transparent, pale, emotionless,

Un-biased,

A clean slate, like the gods they worship,

Eager to be pleased,

But to the one poet

Scribbling away her thoughts

On the terrace,

I'm deaf, yet mischievously

Noisy, like blue,

A splash of yellow,

Like tiny flowers growing on algae paths

Too slippery for their own good.

Even red, when the wavelength

Of my arrival notifies many a

Peacocks before I dine

In real-time,

So I bend over her shoulder,

To read more, and

The paper disintegrates,

Under my fluid scrutiny,

I hear her laugh, a defeated

Yet full-throttled, feel it in your belly giggle,

Maybe I'm no primary colour,

I'm the menace that kisses itself

When two worlds collide,

Orange, violet, green,

As I piggyback my tired son

To her mother,

I steal a tangerine raincoat from the

Humans to keep his cloud mouth dry.


It rains in colours by Arya P D

Birthed in the realm of blue

Caressed in the viridescent beds

Partially inheriting shades

all along its life

The colour of rain is relative

to every eye that beholds

and to every heart that effortlessly weeps


It bleeds in red

In solidarity to an unapologetic woman

To silence the silence weighed upon her

Soaking herself completely in gibberish

Like a strong wave that hit the shore

slowly letting it all sweep away

From bindhi to alta on her toes

Redefining her worth

Where words are no more a spare tyre

and anger being the only rescue

She now wears it like a scent on her clothes


In spring, it has the colour of love

Vivid as a fifty year old tale

exchanging glances and giggles

Vintage shayaris carved in rust

Adding more colours to life

What is a rain that doesn't evoke music within you

like a spirit of rhythm that pours into your heart

A souvenir of first love, for some

The rest of us are graveyards of lost dreams


A familiar clack of boots screaming "I am home"

Or maybe a letter from the beloved

that blankets you in comfort during the heaviest of falls

At those doors that await homecoming

where hopes still remain a luxury

Each drizzle comes with a tint of greyish white

testifying that every cloud has a silver lining


The entity of rain is hence a mirrored canvas

reflecting the depth of one's life

Through the eyes of a five year old

where broken crayons still paint their sky


Self-Portrait of a Sinking Orphan by Srishti Saharia

it is summer,

my mother is wearing a quarter

of her watermelon ice pop like

cherry chapstick over her lips,

and the sun is throbing inside

her throat as she narrates to me

tales about the sea beneath us,

playing kabaddi with our native feet;

her eyes morph into christmas lights,

as brilliant as the sun crawling,

and crumblingтАФ almost birthing,

from inside the belly of her mouth

when she is spinning yarn with

the memories of her maiden days

which she had spent devoted to

the sea like the water was

a prophetic cult in vogue

and she was the most swift,

fanatic of followers,

and the blindest of believers.

she is threading gauze-like

syllables with her teeth to dress

the wound of shame my naked

body isтАФ a mass of evidence,

and the witness that confronts

and confirms the life she could

have lived had i(t) never been

excavated from the ruins of her body.


winterтАФ lazy and unoriginalтАФ

brags about the snowfalls

santa's reindeer drag in

in nordic countries and we

load up our bags for a fortnight

like every other year we can afford

the freedom to fly and hibernate to

where the foreign birds flee from.

my mother plants her heart in ice

and waters it until it grows


we spend our gloomy monsoon

afternoons sleeping in,

my mother's hand on my heart

is a prayer i memories like a promise

and all of the two-hundred and

six bones i inherited from her are

safely tucked inside the fortified cave

carved out from her abdomen and arms.

when the first lozenges of rain

sweeten the earth outside our house,

she sneakily and softly drops

the love child of pink cotton candy

and satin silk on my cheek and

baptizes it a kiss before running

barefoot to snort four ounces

of petrichor like a junkie for a fix


i wake up with a sun-tinted stain

of my urine on my bed the size

of my grief that i cannot gulp

like i have been taught to

swallow my thirst;

my hunger for her tenderness

is only as valid as my will to

mortgage my mouth to

the crown of cutlery.

sometimes i feel like i can go

to war for just a glass of water

that does not taste like war


because, you see,


the flood of last summer did not recognize

her scent of history and misread

the hymns of my mother's devotion as

her consent to be consumed

and the last breath that fuelled

her lungs was a cry for help

that drowned unheard with

the limbs of her body i am made of

and i look like i have been dissolving

ever since


she used to count the pennies

of rain like we count our gods,

her mouth was only as big as

the prayers that feasted from

her palms. my mother pickled

her tongue with salt and water

so that whenever she breathed

on me, i felt the roots of my

hometown written on my skin.

but there grew a mole on my body

wherever she kissed me,

and now my body is saran-wrapped

with the map of the maze i am

trapped inside with the teething

monsters of her memories

and my mourning.


what i mean when i say

i am blind to the colour

of rain is that when i hear

the rain banging on my doors

i find my mother's sun-dried

face plastered against the windowsтАФ

she looks as foreign as the language

of my grief and the absence of

her skin and my faith;

i look for her, to find whatever

is left of her but i avoid the water

to avert my gaze from meeting

and feeding on the eyes of

my reflection and inevitably

digesting that all that is truly left

behind of and by her is my body,

and that one day

with me,

she,

an addict who used and

abused till she overdosed,

will finally cease to exist.


Journal Notes to the Rain I See by Prashanti Chunduri

I learn that colours have feelings,

at my grandmother's lap,

when she points at the mango

my tiny fingers are scrambling to hold,

and asks, "Does yellow feel happy?"

And then I learn that colours are feelings.


The fog-laden air

one dewy summer's day,

giving way to a five-minute cloudburst

as I made my first friend

was silver.

Silver for the delicate, gossamer fairy wings of first loves,

for the flinty shale rocks we went hunting for by winter seas,

for the worry-tinged teenage dreams we whispered about,

for our thunderclouds, stitched together by human linings.

Silver was the colour of the rain,

when I learnt about the impermanence of milk teeth,

and the permanence of friendships.


The bright spring day when I first spoke to you,

was the day I learnt the meaning of sun showers,

as we raced under shop awnings,┬а

past fish mongers,┬а

across damp zebra crossings,

and the fat, memory-tinged raindrops

that splashed under our Converse

were blue.

Blue for the steadying coolness of your palm in mine

(both of us ignoring my sweat as we listen to too-loud adults),

for the hue of the expensive china

I insisted we bring out

when your family came to visit,

for the edges of my heart when we decided

we couldn't stop growing up (and out),

for the exact shade of paint we chose

for my new bedroom┬аwhen I moved 2100 miles from you.

Blue was the colour of the rain

when I learnt about the exhaustion of time,

and the rewards of patience.


The air - heavy with dust motes┬а

and light with the sound of music and laughter -

when I move into my new house,┬а

the cracks in its ceiling, mossy and damp,

the wallpaper┬аpretending to be royal,┬а

the fake plants in the doorway featuring worn plastic,

are all green.

Green for the succulents and cacti

that now thrive under my care,

for the hue of the raindrops in fall

as they splash across my stained glass window,

for the colour of the walls of the library

where we meet again after too many days (months? years?),

for the flecks in your eyes

when I finally learn which colour they are,

for the mint chocolate chip ice-cream we share┬а

(amazingly,┬аthe flavour is called Serendipity).

The colour of the rain is green

when I learn that hope can be tangible,

and as warm as our hugs.


Now, we still have a million colours to discover,

most of them weaved through

the strands of our unwashed hair (memories?),

the stains on our carpet (footprints?),

the blots on our ink-stained fingers (dreams?).

But I still wonder:

what colour is the rain you see,

and can you write to me about it?

Then perhaps I'll look

for the exact hue of feeling in my palette,┬а

and try to write back,

by pigeon post,

so that it will be drenched in the rain -

kaleidoscopic with the colours we both see.


┬а

Hindi Poems


рд╕рд╛рд╡рди рдХреЗ рд░рдВрдЧ / рдЕрднрд┐рдЬреАрдд рд╕рд┐рдВрд╣

рднреВрдЦ рдХреЗ рдмрджрди рдкрд░ рдЧрд░рдорд╛рд╣рдЯ рдХрд╛ рд╕реМрдВрдзрд╛ рд╣рд╛рде

рдкрд░рдЫрд╛рдИ рдХреЗ рдирд╛рдо рдкрд░ рдкреНрдпрд╛рд╕ рдЫреЛреЬрддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдкреНрдпрд╛рд╕ рдореЗрдВ рдЧрд▓рд╛ рдлреИрд▓рддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдирдЧрд░ рд╣реЛ рдЬрд╛рддрд╛ рд╣реИ


рдЕрдкрдиреЗ реЩреНрд╡рд╛рдмрдЧрд╛рд╣ рдореЗрдВ

рдХрд╛рдЬрд▓ рдлреИрд▓ рд░рд╣рд╛ рд╣реЛрддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдХрд╛рд▓реЗ рджреГрд╢реНрдп рд╕рднреА рд░рдВрдЧреЛрдВ рд╕реЗ рдЕрд▓рдЧ рджрд┐рдЦрддреЗ рд╣реИрдВ

рдХрд╡рд┐рддрд╛рдУрдВ рдореЗрдВ рдЙрдирдХрд╛ рдЕрд╣рдо рд╣рд┐рд╕реНрд╕рд╛ рд╣реЛрдирд╛

рдЪрд╛рд╣рд┐рдпреЗ рдпрд╛ рдирд╣реАрдВ рдЗрд╕ рдкрд░ рдмрд╣рд╕ рдЬрд╛рд░реА рд╣реИ

рдмрд╣рд╕ рдкрд░ рдЕрдзрд┐рдХрддрд░ рдореМрди рднрд╛рд░реА рд╣реИ


рдкрд░реНрджреЗ рд▓реВ рд╕реЗ рд╕рд╣рдо рдХрд░ рдХреЗ рдЫреЛрд░ рдкрд░ рдзреАрдореЗ рд╣рд┐рд▓рддреЗ рд╣реИрдВ

рдкреВрд░рд╛ рдХреБрдЫ рдирд╣реАрдВ рд╣рд┐рд▓рддрд╛ рдирд╣реАрдВ рдЪрд▓рддрд╛

рди рдкрд╛рдБрд╡ рд╣рд┐рд▓рдиреЗ рдореЗрдВ рд╕рдХреНрд╖рдо

рди рдХрд╛рди рдЪрд▓ рдкрд╛рдиреЗ рдореЗрдВ рджреВрд░ рдЪрд▓ рд░рд╣реЗ рдЧреАрддреЛрдВ рддрдХ

рди рдкрдВрдЦрд╛ рдШреВрдордиреЗ рдореЗрдВ

рди рдирд▓ рдмрд╣рдиреЗ рдореЗрдВ

рди рджреЛрдкрд╣рд░ рдХрд╛ рдмрд╛рджрд▓


рдкреВрд░рд╛ рдХреБрдЫ рдирд╣реАрдВ рдЪрд▓ рдкрд╛рдиреЗ рдиреЗ

рдЪреАреЫреЛрдВ рдХреА рдЕрд╡рд╕реНрдерд╛ рдореЗрдВ рдкреАрд▓рд┐рдпрд╛ рдлреИрд▓рд╛ рджрд┐рдпрд╛ рд╣реИ

рд╡рд╣реА рдмреАрдорд╛рд░реА рдХрд┐ рдЬрд┐рд╕рдореЗрдВ рдЬреЛреЬреЛрдВ рдореЗрдВ

рджрд░реНрдж рдЙрдарддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдирдмреНреЫ рдЯреВрдЯрдиреЗ рдкрд░ рдЪрд┐рдВрдЧрд╛рд░реА рдЫреВрдЯрддреА рд╣реИ

рдорд╛рдиреЛ рднрдЯреНрдЯреА рдореЗрдВ рдХрд┐рд╕реА рдЙрддреНрд╕реБрдХ рдмрдЪреНрдЪреЗ рдиреЗ

рдирдпрд╛ рдХреЛрдпрд▓рд╛ рдлреЗрдВрдХ рджрд┐рдпрд╛ рд╣реЛ

рдмрд┐рдирд╛ рдЫреМрдВрдХреЗ рдХреА рджрд╛рд▓ рдЬреИрд╕рд╛ рдХрдорд░рд╛

рдХреЗрд╡рд▓ рд╣рд▓реНрджреА рдЬреИрд╕рд╛ рдкреАрд▓рд╛ рд╣реЛрддрд╛ рд╣реИ


рдмрд╛рд▓реНрдЯрд┐рдпреЛрдВ рд╕реЗ рдкрд╛рдиреА рдХрдорд░реЗ рдХрд╛ рдЫрдд рдШреВрд░рддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдЫрдд рдЧреБрд╕реНрд╕реЗ рдореЗрдВ рдЧрд░рдорд╛рдпрд╛ рдХрд░рддреА рд╣реИ

рдкрд╛рдиреА рдореЗрдВ рдкреЬреЗ рдЖрдо

рдЕрдм рдЦреБрд▓рдиреЗ рдХреЗ рд▓рд┐рдП рд░реБрдХ рдирд╣реАрдВ рд╕рдХрддреЗ

рдЬреАрдн рдкрд░ рд╕реВрдХреНрд╖реНрдо рдЗрдЪреНрдЫрд╛рдУрдВ рдХрд╛ рдЬреЛреЬрд╛

рдХрд░рд╡рдЯ рд▓реЗ-рд▓реЗрдХрд░ рджрд┐рди рдмрд╕рд░ рдХрд░рддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдХрд░рд╡рдЯ рдХрд╛ рд╕реЮреЗрдж рд░рдВрдЧ

рдЬреАрдн рдкрд░ рдиреБрдорд╛рдпрд╛рдБ рд╣реИ


рдХрд┐ рддрднреА

рдЧрд░рдо рд╣рд╡рд╛ рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ

рднреВрдордзреНрдп рд░реЗрдЦрд╛ рдкрд░ рдлреВрд▓ рдЙрдЧрд╛рддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдпрдХрд╛рдпрдХ

рдХреЛрдХрдо рдХрд╛ рдЧрд╣рд░рд╛ рд▓рд╛рд▓

рджреБрдмрд▓реЗ рд╣реЛрддреЗ рдЬрд╛ рд░рд╣реЗ рд╕реВрд░рдЬ рдореЗрдВ рдмрд╕рдиреНрдд рдЬреИрд╕рд╛ рдлреИрд▓рддрд╛ рд╣реИ


рдХрд░рд╡рдЯреЗрдВ

рдирд╛рдЪрдШрд░ рд╣реЛрдиреЗ рд▓рдЧрддреА рд╣реИрдВ

рдЗрдорд╛рдо-рдмрд╛рд░рдЧрд╣ рдХреЗ рдХреЛрдареЛрдВ рдкрд░ рд╕реЗ рдШрдЯрд╛ рдЕреЫрд╛рди рджреЗрддреА рд╣реИ

рдЬреАрдн рдкрд░ рдЬреИрд╕реЗ рдиреАрдВрдмреВ рдирд┐рдЪреЛреЬ рдЬрд╛рддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рд╡рд╣реА рднрд╛рдЧрддрд╛ рд╣реБрдЖ

рдЕрдЪрд╛рдирдХ рдЭреВрд▓ рд░рд╣реЗ рдкреЗреЬреЛрдВ рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ

рдкреНрдпрд╛рд╕ рдХреА рд▓рд╣рд░реЛрдВ рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ

рдЧрд░рдо рдкрд╛рдиреА рдореЗрдВ рддрд░ рдХрд┐рдпреЗ рдЧрдП рдЖрдо рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ

рд╣рддрд╛рд╢ рд╣реЛрддреЗ рдЧреБрд╕реНрд╕реЗ рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ

рдЬрд╛рдо рдореЗрдВ рдЦреЬреА рд╣реБрдИ рдЧрд╛реЬрд┐рдпреЛрдВ рд╕реЗ рд▓рдЧ рдХрд░ рднрд┐рдЦрд╛рд░реА рдХреЗ рдмрдЪреНрдЪреЗ

рдФрд░ рдЙрдирдХреЗ рдЪреЗрд╣рд░реЗ рд╕реЗ рд▓рдЧрд╛ рд╣реБрдЖ рдЬрд╛рдо рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ

рдпрдХрд╛рдпрдХ рдпрдХрд╛рдпрдХ рдпрдХрд╛рдпрдХ

рдЪрд┐рд▓реНрд▓рд╛рддреЗ рд╣реБрдП рдЖрдХрд╛рд╢ рдХреА рдУрд░ рд▓рдкрдХ рдкреЬрддреЗ рд╣реИрдВ!


рдФрд░ рдмрд╛рд▓реНрдЯрд┐рдпреЛрдВ рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ

рдЦрд┐реЬрдХрд┐рдпреЛрдВ рд╕реЗ рдирд┐рдХрд▓-рдирд┐рдХрд▓рдХрд░

рд╕реЬрдХреЛрдВ рдкрд░ рдЬрд╛ рдЦреЬрд╛ рд╣реЛрддрд╛ рд╣реИ


рдХреБрдЫ рдореБрдБрд╣ рд▓рдЯрдХрд╛рдХрд░

рддреЛ рдХреБрдЫ рдореБрдБрд╣ рдЦреЛрд▓реЗ рдЙрдард╛рдП рддрд╛рдХ рд░рд╣реЗ рд╣реЛрддреЗ рд╣реИрдВ

рдЕрдВрддрд░рд┐рдХреНрд╖ рдореЗрдВ рдлреИрд▓рд╛ рдкреНрд░рд╢рд╛рдВрдд

рдЬрдм рдЖрддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рд╕рд╛рд╡рди


рдХрд┐рд╕реА рдорд╛рдБрдЧ рдХрд╛ рд╕рд┐рдВрджреВрд░ рдЕрдкрдиреЗ рдЕрд╕реНрддрд┐рддреНрд╡ рд╕реЗ

рдЕрд╕реНрд╡реАрдХреГрддрд┐ рдЫреАрди рд▓реЗрддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдЙрд╕рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ рдпреЗ рд░рд╣рд╛

рджреЗрдЦреЛ-рджреЗрдЦреЛ рдЗрд╕ рдХрд╡рд┐рддрд╛ рдкрд░

рдЬреИрд╕реЗ рдЕрдиреАрдорд╛ рдкрд░ рд╕рд░рд┐рддрд╛ рдХреЗ рдЕрдзрд░реЛрдВ рдХреА рдЫрд╛рдк

рдЬреИрд╕реЗ рдкрд╛рдиреА рд╕реЗ рдкрд╛рдиреА рдХрд╛ рдорд┐рд▓рд╛рдк

рд▓рд┐рдкрдЯрддреЗ рд╣реБрдП рдЖрд▓рд╛рдк рдФрд░ рдЖрд▓рд╛рдк


рдЙрдзрд░

рджрд╛рд▓рдЪреАрдиреА рдмрд╛рд▓ рдЦреЛрд▓рддреА рд╣реИ

рдЗрддреНрд░ рдмрди рдЬрд╛рддреА рд╣реИ

рдЙрд╕рдХрд╛ рд░рдВрдЧ

рдордиреЛрд╡рд┐рдЬреНрдЮрд╛рди рдХреА рднрд╛рд╖рд╛ рдореЗрдВ рдпрд╛рджрджрд╛рд╢реНрдд рдХрд╣рд▓рд╛рддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдЗрдиреНрд╣реАрдВ рдпрд╛рджреЛрдВ рдХреЗ рдмрдХреНрд╕реЗ рд╕реЗ

рд╕рд░реНрджрд┐рдпрд╛рдБ рдЧрд╣рдиреЗ рдкрд╣рди рдХрд░ рдирд┐рдХрд▓ рдкреЬрддреА рд╣реИ

рднрд╛рд░реА рдореЛрдЯреА рд╕рд╛реЬреА

рдвреАрд▓рд╛-рдврд╛рд▓рд╛ рдЬреВреЬрд╛

рдкреИрд░реЛрдВ рдореЗрдВ рдЪрд╛рдБрджреА рдХреА рдХрд╛реЮреА рдкреБрд░рд╛рдиреА рдкрд╛рдпрд▓

рдмрд╛рд▓рдХрдиреА рдореЗрдВ рд╕рдЬ-рд╕рдБрд╡рд░ рдХрд░

рдмрд╛рд╣реЗрдВ рдЦреЛрд▓

рдЖ рдЦреЬреА рд╣реЛрддреА рд╣реИ


рд╕рд┐рд░реНреЮ рддреБрдореНрд╣рд╛рд░реЗ рд▓рд┐рдП

рд╕рд╛рд╡рди


рдХрдорд░реЗ рдХреЗ рдкреАрд▓реЗрдкрди рдкрд░

рдХрд╡рд┐ рдмрдЪреА-рдХреБрдЪреА рд╕реНрдпрд╛рд╣реА рдЙреЬреЗрд▓ рджреЗрддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рддреЛ рдЙрдзрд░ рджреЛрдкрд╣рд░ рдХреА рджрд╛рд▓ рдореЗрдВ

рд╕реВрд░реНрдпрд╛рд╕реНрдд рдЖ рдЧрд┐рд░рддрд╛ рд╣реИ


рдореЛрд╣рд▓реНрд▓реЗ рднрд░ рдореЗрдВ рдЗрд╕ рдЫреМрдВрдХреЗ рдХреА рд╕реБрдЧрдВрдз

рдЕрдкрдиреЗ рд░рдВрдЧреЛрдВ рд╕реЗ рдЗрдВрджреНрд░рдзрдиреБрд╖ рдЦреАрдВрдЪ рджреЗрддреА рд╣реИ

рдХреЛрдИ рдЯреАрежрд╡реАреж рдХрд╛ рд╡реЙрд▓реНрдпреВрдо рдмреЭрд╛ рд▓реЗрддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рддреЛ рдХреЛрдИ рдкрдВрдЦрд╛ рдмрдВрдж рдХрд░ рджреЗрддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдХрд╣реАрдВ рдЪрд╛рдп рдмрдирд╛рдиреЗ рдХреЗ рд▓рд┐рдП

рдЖрджрдд реШрджрдо рдмреЭрд╛рддреА рд╣реИ

рддреЛ рдХрд╣реАрдВ рд╕реЗ рдЗрди рд╕рд╛рд░реЗ рдЧреАрддреЛрдВ рдХреЛ рдЫреВрддреЗ рд╣реБрдП

рджрд░рд╡рд╛реЫреЗ рдкрд░ рдПрдХ рджреБрд▓рд╛рд░ рднрд░реА рдЪрд┐рдЯреНрдЯреА рдЖрддреА рд╣реИ


рдкрд░реНрджреЗ рд╣рдЯрд╛рдХрд░ рдкрд░реНрджреЗ рдХрд╛ рджреБрдГрдЦ

рдореБрд╕реНрдХреБрд░рд╛рддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рджреЗрдЦрддрд╛ рд╣реИ рдХрд┐

рд╡рд╣реАрдВ рд╕рдмреНреЫ рд▓реЙрди рдкрд░

рд▓реВ рд▓реЗрдЯреЗ рд╣реБрдП рд╣реИ

рд╕рд┐рд░рд╣рд╛рдиреЗ рд╕рд╛рд╡рди рдмреИрдард╛ рд╣реИ

рд╕рд┐рд░рд╣рд╛рдиреЗ рд╕рдордиреНрджрд░ рдХреЗ рдзрд╛рдЧреЗ рдЦреБрд▓рдХрд░ рдмрд┐рдЦрд░реЗ рдкреЬреЗ рд╣реИрдВ

рд╕рд┐рд░рд╣рд╛рдиреЗ рдмреВрдВрдж-рдмреВрдВрдж рдЬреИрд╕реА рдХрд┐рд▓рдХрд╛рд░реА рдХрд╛рдиреЛрдВ рдореЗрдВ

рдШрд░ рдХрд░ рд░рд╣реА рд╣реИрдВ


рдФрд░ рдЕрдм рд╕рд┐рд░рд╣рд╛рдиреЗ рд▓реВ рдХреЗ

рдЪреАреЫреЛрдВ рдХреА рдЕрд╡рд╕реНрдерд╛ рдкрд╕реАрдЬ рдХрд░ рдкреНрд░реЗрдо рд╣реЛ рдЧрдпреА рд╣реИ


реЩреНрд╡рд╛рдмрдЧрд╛рд╣ рдХреА рдЫрдд рдЧрд┐рд░ рдкреЬрддреА рд╣реИ

рдХрд╛рдЬрд▓ рдЖрд╕рдорд╛рди рдореЗрдВ рдЙреЬрдирдЦрдЯреЛрд▓реЗ рд╕рд╛ рдЙреЬрддрд╛ рд╣реИ

рдкреНрдпрд╛рд╕ рдЬрд┐рд╕ рдЧрд▓реЗ рдХреЛ рдлреИрд▓рд╛ рдЪреБрдХреА рдереА

рд╡рд╣ рдирдЧрд░ рдЕрдм рдмрд╛рд░рд┐рд╢ рд╕реЗ рднрд░ рд░рд╣рд╛ рд╣реИ

рдкрд░рдЫрд╛рдИ рдХреЗ рдирд╛рдо рдкрд░ рдкрд╛рдиреА рд░рдВрдЧ рд╣реИ


рднреВрдЦ

рджреЗрдЦреЛ

рд╕рд╛рд╡рди рд╕рдВрдЧ рд╣реИ



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