A tribute to my girls. The old world

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Sometimes the old world just goes away.

Just takes off his hat and disappears.

You can still see its circles and spirals on the map of the city,
you can still try to catch it up, marking the map with Yandex flags.

You can call and answer calls, catch traces and even threaten the unknown who switched the picture or slide.

You can.

But it still left his way, taking the memories:
like a leather briefcase keeps the smell of school books;
like a big and reliable black umbrella covering a boy from bad weather, but alas, not a man;
like a beloved old sweater that keeps warm and slightly noticeable traces of engine oil, but already a little restraining shoulder in motion.

And here you are reconciled with its leaving, you listen to its slightly shuffling steps and let it go with a slight feeling of sadness.

At this moment you begin to notice a new world, timid and timidly looking into your eyes.
It has already opened the windows of your house and with a light draft rustles the silk curtain.
It already knocks in your heart, looking through the sun rays through the menacing clouds.

It knows exactly where and why it came, and patiently waits to be believed in it.

They will believe that in whatever direction the wind is blowing, now you can always turn the sails in the right direction.