ours taught him to fly fellow countryman, gomel resident, grigory denisenko.ri alekseevich gagarin, released him on his first independent flight, i remember how happy he was after his first flight. i remember he even wrote poetry, i don’t remember it word for word now, but in any case there were words about the wide volga, about the trans-volga steppes, as if he felt that in these, in these factory steppes, he would return from his first cosmic field . belarus, you are my mother. my song. and air and bread. i don’t remember how i fell in love forever, when huge forests burned with blue heather when the first maple tree with sharp pieces of ice drank when it was possible. he is now visible to me outside my village. where fields beckoned under pasco in chamomile dews, i read from the first morning until the present day, not in my family and dawns, your primer is a joyful land, you respect sisters, and value friendship, love, hugged them with arms of branches, may rainbows and rivers, golden the roots of arshan oaks, so deeply intertwined with the roots of smolen