distant seventies, when i wrote one of the first poems , it was called russia , it was written by a boy mishaeve, well, years old, 10. it sounds like this. oh, russia , native fields and forests, the horizons merge with the sky in the morning, dew appears on the grass , the evening smells of wormwood and bread sets fire to the scarlet dawn, with the draft of dawn, skyr caps dry hay in the evenings, the sunset burns for a long, long time, breaking out of the black captivity and you stand from the surging feelings. he is not himself and is powerless to fight with excitement. believe me, only you fill the souls of our boys, russia is such a poem. my classmate, a neighbor on the desk, a girl from a good family. dad, a conductor, traveling abroad, my mother is a famous former athlete, and a girl my age asked me this question. and why do all the guys dream hmm live life for the sake of russia and suddenly not all of a sudden you're wrong. here i think it is discussion in the family of this poem was already then people during my childhood. they were close. they grew up with me. they are from other fam