Читать книгу Русский паркур / Russian parkour - Евгений Типайлов - Страница 3

Lines and blocks make city countour,

Homes have grids inside.

My ideas practice parkour

In the suburbs of my mind.

I push forward from an angle,

Summersault and twist,

Land on palms with lines entangled,

Clench them into fists.

Rising walls confine my motions,

I flounce about the ward,

Kicking back all bouncing notions,

Juggling Russian words.

Bang against the walls of faces,

Run until I face a wall.

Tired and hurt from endless races,

I still love them all.

I shape letter after letter

Drawing knees up to the chest,

Let my tactics become better,

Let my strategy be the best.

Like a mark of exclamation,

Finally I straighten myself up.

The walls echo an ovation:

I have won the parkour cup.