The storm has passed. We few survived.
On the roll call of friendship of many no.
I returned to the edge of the orphaned,
In which was not eight years.
Someone call me? Who do I share
That sad joy, I'm still alive?
There's even a mill - a log bird
With only one wing - worth, adjacent eyes.
I do not know anyone here,
and this, remember that, long forgotten.
And there, which it was once the ancestral home,
Now lies ash layer and road dust.
Around me scurry
Both old and young faces.
But no one I bow to the hat,
No one's eyes do not find shelter.
And in my head are a swarm of thoughts:
Can it be that dreams?
In fact I almost everyone here pilgrim moody
God knows how far side.
I, village citizen,
That only those will be famous,
That is when the woman gave birth
Russian scandalous piita.
But the voice of the thoughts of the heart the:
"Come to your senses! How did you hurt?
It's just a new light burns
Another generation in the huts.
Already you have become a little fade,
Other young men sing other songs.
They, perhaps, will be interesting -
Would not village, and all the land of their mother ".
Brother, family, What I became funny!
On the sunken cheeks flushed dry flies.
Language of compatriots has become to me as a stranger,
At home, I like a foreigner.
Here I see:
At the parish, in the church, gathered.
Koryavыmy things nemыtыmy
They are your Serviced "zhis".
already evening. liquid gold leaf
Sunset sprayed gray field.
And bare feet, as a heifer at the gate,
Utknuli on Channel Topolna.
Lame Red Army soldier with the face of a sleepy,
In his memoirs, furrowed brow,
It says it is important to Budyonny,
About tom, Reds recaptured Perekop.
"Oh, we - and that way and once that way,–
Bourgeois entogo ... which ... in the Crimea ... "
And maples frown ears long branches,
And the women sigh in silent gloom.
From the mountain is a peasant Komsomol,
And under the harmonica, nayarivaya zealously,
Sing agitation Poor Demian,
Jolly cry disclosing dol.
This is how the country!
What am I goad
Oral poems, I'm with the people friendly?
My poetry is no longer needed,
Yes and, perhaps, I myself, too, is not needed.
forgive, native shelter.
The concelebrated you - and so I am pleased with the.
Let me now do not sing -
I sang then, when my land was ill.
How have all accept.
Ready to go for embossed footsteps,
I give his soul October and May,
But lyre I will not give.
I will not give it in the wrong hands,–
nor mother, no other, nor woman.
As soon as I entrust to her their sounds
And only the gentle songs sung only me.
flower, young, Health and body!
You have another life. You have a different tune.
And I will go alone to unknown limits,
Rebellious soul forever prismirev.
But even then,,
When the entire planet
Will be held warring tribes,
Away lies and sadness,–
I will sing
The whole being in the poet
The sixth part of the land
With names Short "Rus".