Kostrov is a brief biography

The coast is steep. Yes, mirror moisture is close. As you and I were welcomed by the Vetluga whirlpools - a dark failure, a gold strip of sand. To the sky, throwing his cramped word of sundress, tearing off a tufel boat from his feet, you sailed with a path of lunar fraud into a star-wound, into infrequent fish circles. And she returned back, young and brave, with dark snakes of wet hair on the temples to clog, like a fish, a mighty white, in my greedy hands, stunned with happiness with happiness.

I hear splashing, I see flickering, along the shores of the lights of the villages, I hear a lone neighing horse, a rustle of Vetluga, filled with excess. Oh, the dark whirlpools are deeply in my memory, years and water run in a series. If you get away from the house, you do not slip on the dew path steep! It does not overgrown with fresh flesh ... I fly west and east, but I should often go to the Totma in order to put its flower at the feet.

He lived outside of everyday life, only by a Russian word. Wandering, homelessness, poverty. He sang sweetly. But with a cold honey, the harsh eyelid closed his mouth. You can, good people, be able to remember the river, a monument over it. In a cash, in a coat, a poet of native fields calls on a stone bench. And therefore, as you can see, forever, but in the memory that you do not do with her, she rises, Colin’s star: a star of the fields in the darkness of icy.

Return as an entry to Haji Murat, my side is richly rich, to hell - try it, tear off! Moreover, in rooks and streams, round, long speeches, like streams, gurgling in the blood ... A horse ball with a katnu boot is narrow, who knows, Lee Swedish, French ... Home Home - Do not take his eyes! Sad and meek nature, here she is - stands at the garden a small sad mother. Nearby dad twitches a cigarette.

The century bent you like a question mark, and no longer bend his back. Hello, aunt, God's dandelion, this is me is your blond boy. Thank God, tears of solones. With your labors, your bread, I live between earth and heaven. Mommy, will you recognize me? I am your son! I am a vegetable from this bed. You see - I cry, then everything is in order: if I cry, then this is me. Flows of reason in the glow of tuning.

Believe me, check - poetry ball, go to the right - you will come to the left. It is clear in it unclear and stupid, shallow. In it, the feeling and thought is like a horse and a germ. Believe me, check - poetry of the cube of the room where you loved each other. I will create a simple idol for myself, a tear on the cheek - this is her fraud. Poetry is a corner, I tell you where it is rare, but we kneel down.

Ivan, who does not remember kinship not as a folklore detail, as a challenge against nature, was a terrible image in Russian life - Ivan, who did not remember kinship. Neither a light nor a field of honor. Not a heavy bell. Neither good memory, no song, nor mother and father. It is not a injury, not ugliness, not to melt - the hand at the ax, but the hearts are eternal orphan and in the bright mind the hole.

And in the near side, and in the far, during the hours of trouble and celebrations there is no fate more sad, Ivan, who does not remember kinship. Before I become a shadow, acutely, like an experienced, I hear, I hear a waxwood, shebarchy and rustling. These herbs, these birds at sunset and at the zenith, your dear eyelashes, I hear you, say. Nothing is necessary except for general joy and pain, good song in the father’s house, whistling blizzards in a clean field.

We will leave, but not like shadows, into the world of birds and plants, in songs, rustles and sounds. You and I will hear the grandchildren.

The old plot is again the Moscow Region Red from the wound. Beloved, it ends summer. For the heart - joy, for the eye - a reward. It’s time for wilting, the time of leaf fall. And you are like Eve on an ancient icon, and Ranet rings in a transparent palm. And we will not be driven out of our garden. The time of leaf fall loves us and remembers us. Saying goodbye, nature burns and rejoices, and the heart wishes a forbidden fruit.

And you can burn out from your favorite gaze ... Such a drunk time for leaf fall! We met in the world of what fate? We will touch the apple together with our lips. There will be no immortality, and there is no paradise. Gori, without burning, the time of leaf fall! Colonel Ah Colonel, he is gray -haired and gallant, and they ring the orders on his chest!

.. He only wants to be a lieutenant who has everything ahead! The youngest, the most important in the world, when in the sunlight, two tiny stars, these, like tears, tremble on their shoulders. To become green, like a fresh branch, so that the girls on his own fear of the twentieth century Grenadier are hugged in deaf towns, so that the newbinite from the ranks of the tricked his mouth into a thick lieutenant, at a swollen boy’s mouth, looked embarrassedly.

And Comrade Colonel sighs, and gray hair trembles on the temples, and friends recalls the deceased in Russian and other fields. I am reluctant to give me an order, the order on the lips freezes: I don’t want the formidable something to come in childish features. ” With a song! They go with a song. More fun, sang, buzz! Far to us guys, to pensions! Well, still ahead!

Nearby, they, as once, to drink a cup of drink slowly, the evil year of the year, two soldiers, in each Russian soul. Two fighting soldiers who executed the order, “are warm, living people,” maybe more lively than us. And they asked with anxiety, impatience without melting: “What, where is it, Russia, according to what line is its own? We kept silently - we brought us sorrow of mouth.Only quietly sounded in the domes of the bells.

We don’t start, we will break through, we will be alive - we will not die. The deadline will come, let's go back that we gave it - we will return everything. ” Over the Dnieper surface of the water I accept your covenant, dear hero and my beloved poet. And for a difficult life, so that longing to leave the soul, I put the breast a handful of Smolensk sand in my pocket. To live with bitter crowds to live alone, to hear the eternal call of the native land in full breast!

The Moscow courtyard was boiled soup ... It is time to share the harnesses ... ... all overgrown, black, like a walrus, on a bench near foreign cars, cold, dies a homeless person. Above the bench is a terrible sticky smell of dirt and urine. And to appeal to someone in vain: Muscovites lost pity. The TV teaches how to howl in wolf - the announcers are impassive and dexterous.

Is it a wonder that anger in the blood is bubbling, claws and fangs grow? The homeless wheezes from drugs Il Shyan - the last bed is cold. I will really become a werewolf in order to drive the weak, and to tear the throats, and consider that only the power is right, to think: what I want, then I turn it? No need to build temples and hold a weeping candle.

Soup cooked. It's time to divide the harnesses. Fresh snow falls like a shroud. The courtyard is sleeping. And near foreign cars, a Russian man dies. I was born in the land unhappy, in the Tatvetluzhskaya forest side. A wooden peak creaked, a cat green sparkled from a bench, a white blizzard sang her cranes. Golden half will burn out, the days melt in the midnight darkness.

I did not eat anything sweeter than rye bread later on the ground. I'm leaving for another bosses, I will only regret the former. Sweeter of Russian bitter happiness is nothing on the ball of the earth.