Biography of the Rozhdestvensky Armed Forces

Always in everything old or new, the languor of the Spirit are you or grace? Furious loss or enrichment endlessly? A hot day, what sunset is not, or a night that devastated hearts? Or maybe you are just a reminder that we will inevitably expect us: with nature, with unconsciousness, merger and the eternal world cycle? August Vanka-Vstanka Vanka-Vstanka is a simple toy, you are in a skillful and exact hand, a pile of chips is easily spread out, on a lathe spinning a machine.

They ground you, ran into, poured lead right in the heels - and stands without anxieties and sadness, aking, a dashing well done! The handicraftsmen in Posad near Moscow, tending over the treasured work, put a brush, for the sake of joy, in a caftan, an intricate ligature. The cheeks were embellished with Rosan, a sly point outlined that you lived considerable terms, amusing not only the guys.

So that in the shirt of colorful patterns - any -way, blood with milk! Whose power is not bent or crushed to the ground - you get up, as if nothing had happened, to all misfortunes and grief in spite. And you carried it through so many years - no, centuries! I hardened our Russian breed, Vanka-Vstanka, I will find out in you! I am in charge of centuries the cherished psalter, I am eager to quench with a native speech, where the Pushkinsky Yambov, swift expanse, accommodates the run of the horse and wisdom to the man.

In the neighborhood of distant words, I find kinship, I like to bring their meaning and distance closer, all the more captivating for the palate of my retirement of solid “p” and vowel sighing. Links, Gremi and Sing, Magic Stream! There was no such language in the world, in it is a quiet rustle of rye, and the roar of the nightingale, and the sparkling beginning of the thunderstorms.

The language of Derzhavin and Lermontov strings, you are the flood of rivers, spilled widely, the spacious rumble of forests and birds Gamayun deaf singing in the cell cell. May God grant us the great -grandfather’s legacy to save, not to dull your hearing where everything is new to him, and, having cried the line, wait for bright meetings with Pushkin’s insight and Rublev’s colors.

In the unique, big times of folk valor, labor and inspiration, God forbid us to raise the Russian verse to Ramen, so that his life, and strength and movement! Let the years fly over them, - they breathe snowy freshness. Whose wings bring their wings, from where? Is this a shadow or a vision in a dream? How many times a white -winged miracle at dawn seemed to me! But, like a ray of centuries -old belief, it left the arrow, and, circling, lonely feathers fell on the crop of rocks.

Uneatable grief-hunter, why are you watching with a longing for them? You knew - there will be nothing more disgraceful in this world of sliding signs. What do you mean dexterity, patience and a habitually prolonged eye: an unexpected vision arises, and even this is only the only time. But the longing for the inaccessibility of the bird in the tireless alarm of hunts is still better than the usual prey, which fell out of life from heights.

November Love do not give up six of these letters to fun, although the world is used to them. They are fire. As long as the heart beats and drives warmth in the body of blood, you seem to drink from the eternal well, transforming a dream into reality. From dull days in their tireless shift, when sometimes everything is dead to the heart, the celebration leads to the unexpected world of the miraculous transformations of love.

Here is a woman in whom there is so much light, a friend in bad weather, a companion in the struggle - and immediately the heart prompted: this, yes, only this one is a ray in your fate! Let her dream of your creature, one imagination of your imagination - with her eternity, hot breath has already fallen into earthly being. As a call that came from the depths of centuries, like a flash of light behind the threshold of darkness, and our fire will be inherited by children to enter immortality, like us.

January familiar house I remember this bright house ... His concrete community looked with the upper floor in the scope of the Tauride Garden, and the third window from the corner, caught the sunset, was red as it was all for a long time! And, crossing the street in the winds of spring bad weather, I spoke under the noise of the rain: “There, happiness shines there too!

I remember the darkened house when with his comrades he called together with every brick about adamance and revenge. Submed through the chest in the snowdrifts, a cold cold and strictly silent, he seemed to become dark and already, the fifth in his native land, he was not calm - a concrete, a sophisticated cliff, alerted like a warrior. I remember this black house under the formidable sky of Leningrad, split, like an ax, the blow of a heavy shell.

In the pile of bricks and a fluid, he lay, black and nobody, smoking the rags of failure, and only the old window disappeared by some miracle. It was then dark and lonely to the limit. And again I saw this house dressed with fresh forests. He was filled with a new thunder, he sang with a saw and hammers. In the dust, in the light, the floors grew higher without fear, and their bluish colors were festively fresh.

And a thin ray, sliding to the spring in the morning, in a fresh shine, poured blue on the glasses and touched the curtains quietly ... Who, under the roof, lives in my window - the third with the edge? Major of the reserve? But I want it to work easily and sang, so that creative maturity is getting into the revived house, so that the house looks like before, in the distance, at the rolls of a sunny garden, where the sun rises, like a medal “for the defense of Leningrad”.We see them, although they are not, but in space, pierced by rays, according to simple unchanged laws, a flickering light comes to us.

I know that, like a star, the exploits of honor will also be alive, that we will hear about the oversized leads always and everywhere. I know - in the hundredth and thousandth year, passing from the outposts of Leningrad, you will not be able to take a grateful look from these heights. From the spring land, like alive, where the clouds were swirling once, he will stand in a short fur coat of a soldier - your life is a defended hero.

When the stream sparkles so triumphantly and the household celebrates the life, I will tell them: “Dear friends! I disturb your fun. Twelve blows. A year is born. Our laughter and singing are careless, and in memory of the guest, this cruel vision rises unexpected. I see how stone smoke rolls to the eye sockets of a broken bunker, I hear - a cold shot of a machine gun merges with my heart.

Trying his fingers and snow torn with his elbows with his elbows, he wants to rise, he crawls with us, into this roar and flame, and now, on the back, on the slope of steep, he shakes in the snow a reddish - the remaining guy with an ordinary face, with an automaton clamped in his hand ... How many of them were - Ryazan, Pskov, harsh in the last rest! Let's remember them silently and drink them for them, for the Russian heart is simple!

The inglorious end is prepared for the enemy, and with us at the festival of honor all those to whom we are in immense duty are satisfactory together. For them to the edges and wine is poured, so that life, continuing, shines. So let's go in silence and drink for the fact that the time of separation has passed! I saw the same alley where the nests are pumping rooks. I heard the dark lindens of the non -humorous conversation, I wolves sobs and a bonfire smoldering in the field.

And I saw my house, where in the windows, trembling, a candle was fucked up. The birch of the silver curl, swinging, touched the shoulder. From the fields through the fogs, the gray -haired hays carried to us, the constellations - the eyes were alive - glass looked into the river. I could have told in detail what you were that evening; The moon was dazzling your rustling dress.

And we could not breathe cool in the night silence, and you were nineteen, and the same, right, and me.

A tired day falls on the snowy peaks, and the stars of Kazakhstan ascended to the sky. We were met by the dogs behind a near turn, the invisible branch whipped the face, yawned a heavy gate with a long creak, and Brichka rolled up to the wet porch. The whole house was fascinated, breathing in a warm dream, clouded boxes, fallen blankets. Primus sneezed in the kitchen, and the pendulum was awake and a shadow and cockroaches over the shelves dispersed.

While the bunnies and apples of the baked ones are poured over the samovar, I look at short fur coats, guns and tablets, poplars and stars in the awakened garden. Tomorrow to the mountains. We need to rush. Rise by six o’clock. Come on tea guys! Leave conversations. I will prepare tasks and cards myself. ” A broken knee whines a little more audibly, a whisper on the hayloft is a girlish sleepy nonsense, and I, like in memory of childhood, fall into the hay, and the stars flying into the yard draw the sky.

This morning in the mountains, a little dawn will disperse the darkness, behind pink copper, behind a blue lead! This morning to the mountains. The settled horses are snoring, ringing the hill, in front of an empty porch. In my dream, the gorges are shifted like shadows, ore is cut through with deep pits ... This morning, water is curved in the mountains, in the layers of deposits, where water is curved with a tin!

From lectures and tests, from book excitement - to a tent in mountain herbs with a foot thunderstorm, so that the mountains are parted, so that the map is updated, so that all the secrets are revealed to us for centuries Paleozois! There is nothing more beautiful in the world! Do not regret anything that lay behind. Is life good without winds and anxiety? Is it not cramped in the chest of the song?

For the purple scrap of steamed smoke, for the beep of the steamer on the coniferous river, for spills of the meadows rushing past, I am ready to give all the restless longing. From the swing, from a screech, a song roar rises from the dance of the wagon - and now life flies from the illuminated month of the slope into a shaggy sunrise spread by the wind. Mountains open behind the fault of the steppes, the path crashes into the gold wheat, the platforms fly off, and with a roar, a fast spaces of smoky chest are torn.

Mountains and rivers curls in the usual pattern, but in a new way they breathe under the sky with thick and Kuban steppes, and the Black Sea, and the Severe Caucasus, and the steep Crimea. Oh, road, road! I know in vast that, as soon as it pulls warm in the spring, I will give everything for the sun, for the wind of wandering, for a high friendship to my native side! On the Neva is confused, copper of the wave and a torn dawn.

I can’t sleep - this is a flood, this is a roar of guns, a factory howl and such as then, the weather: the twenty -fifth evening of October.