My hometown
I love my city. I was born here, my mother and grandfather come from here. My relatives and beloved friends live here.
My city is especially good in the spring. The tender green leaves, soft young grass on the lawns make it young, cheerful and somehow shiny. The sun pours clean wide streets, reflected in colorful display cases, sparkles in the windows of slender high-rise buildings. The city blossoms. In spring, the names of the neighborhoods are heard in shuttle buses and buses: Flower, Blue, Broad. Bright colorful signs of shops, boutiques, salons do not give bored to passers-by. The city is being built. Every day you can see something new. Houses and churches are being built, architectural monuments are being restored. The city is changing every year. Today he is completely different from the city of my early childhood – he grows with me, but still remains as close, as a friend, whom you have known for many, many years. My city loves me.
The city in which I live
I live in a city famous in many wonderful songs, sung in the books of such famous writers as Alexander Green, Konstantin Paustovsky. Many wrote about him and my favorite writer Vladislav Krapivin. Often, walking along the familiar streets, I imagine myself the hero of another Krapivino book. After all, I’m the same sunburnt boy with scratched knees and sunburned hair, like many sorvants who came off the pages of Krapivin’s works.
My town is very beautiful. He has his own character. At first glance, he seems serious and impregnable, as if he were a well-deserved warrior in a dress uniform, whose chest is hung with ringing orders and medals. But in fact, like all real soldiers, my city is cheerful and very kind, because good and sympathetic people live in it. Very, very many good people!
You probably guessed where I live? My city bears the glorious name of Sevastopol. And I really love him.
The city in which I live can not be found on a geographical map. He stands
No wonder our city is called a “pearl”. If the city can be good, then our Zurbagan is a kind city: both old-timers and foreigners feel themselves at home. We Zurbagans are able to have fun, but the work is also in our skillful hands. Many townspeople can say: “We are happy, because we live in the most beautiful city on Earth.”
Such a city was created by my imagination. Wonderful, really.
In the morning I open the heavy front door and go out into the street. I hear the noise of the motorway, the bells of the trams, I see hurried passers-by. The gloomy sky hung low over the city. It was about to rain. I walk around an endless row of crowded garbage cans, cross the street and go to school. This city, probably, also someone imagined?
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