White Cupid-12kg

Raw heaviness in boots, On the rods, Totally "four" on the clock The eyes are stuck. The mist rolls over the water, Hiding the floats, The nature of the morning rest, In the branches of my soul. Chu, pulled a breeze from the east, The fog began to fester, And sinking quietly down, Melt like a stupor. Here the sun began to rise, The east porozovel, And the first, timid, thin ray Dyed a fishing float. He seemed to be waiting for this, Suddenly went sideways and down. But I give myself a signal. Be patient, do not hurry ... But here's a cutting, the fish is there! Rod in the arc ... And a golden, handsome tench Lies on the shore.