Still - Brodsky

Verra death and will have your eyes.
C. Pavese


Things and people we
surround. and this,
and those tormented eyes.
It is better to live in the dark.

I'm sitting on the bench
in the park, looking vosled
running family.
I loathed light.

This January. Winter
according to the calendar.
When darkness oprotiveet,
Then I talk.


It's time. I'm ready to start.
Never mind, why. Open
mouth. I can remain silent.
But it is better to talk to me.

About what? On the days, at night.
Or - nothing.
Or things.
About things, instead of

people. they will die.
Everything. I, too, will die.
It's fruitless labor.
How to write in the wind.


My blood cold.
Chill it lyutey
rivers, promerzshey to the bottom.
Я не люблю людей.

their appearance is not for me.
Their faces grafted
to life some not -
leaves view.

Something in their faces there,
that is contrary to the mind.
What does the flattery
knows who.


pleasant things. They
no evil, not good
externally. And if INEC
in them - both inside insides.

Inside objects - the dust.
dust. Carpenter beetle.
wall. dry bloodworm.
Awkward hand.

Dust. And the lights
only light up the dust.
Even if the subject


Old cupboard outside
as well, both inside,
reminds me
Notre Dame de Couples.

In the depths of the darkness of the cupboard.
Mop, stole
dust does not erase. Herself
thing, usually, dust

not endeavor to overcome,
It does not bother eyebrow.
For dust - this flesh
time; flesh and blood.


Lately I
I am sleeping in broad daylight.
Видимо, my death
feel me,

tray, even breathe,
I mirror to her mouth,
I bear
oblivion to light.

January motionless. Two
hip cool, how ice.
Venoznaya blue
marble gives.


presenting surprise
the sum of its angles
thing falls out
words world order.

The thing you should not. And not
moves. That's bullshit.
Thing is, the space, out
whose things there.

Thing you can bang, burn,
gut, break.
throw. When this thing
not shout: "Holy shit!»


Tree. Shadow. Land
under a tree to the roots.
gnarled monogram.
Clay. ledge.

roots. they cover.
A rock, whose personal cargo
exempt from
This system ties.

he is motionless. Ни
move, or carry.
Shadow. The man in the shadows,
like a fish in the net.


Thing. Brown color
things. Whose contour is erased.
Dusk. No more
nothing. Still life.

Death will come and will
body, whose expanse visit
of death, just income
women, will reflect.

This is absurd, вранье:
skull, skeleton, hair.
"Death will come, she has
will have your eyes ".


Mother says Christ:
- You are my son, or my God?
You nailed to the cross.
How can I go home?

How to set foot on the threshold,
not understanding, undecided:
you are my son or God?
I.e, dead or alive?

He says in response:
- Dead or Alive,
difference, woman, not.
Son or God, I am yours.


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Sergey Yesenin
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