In the old Strauss waltz for the first time
We heard your silent call
Since then, all living things are alien to us
And the quick chime of the clock is gratifying.

We, like you, welcome the sunsets
Reveling in the nearness of the end.
All that we are rich on the best evening,
You put us in our hearts.

Tirelessly leaning towards children's dreams,
(Without you, only a month looked at them!)
You led your little ones by
Bitter life of thoughts and deeds.

WITH early years we are close, who is sad,
Laughter is boring and homely shelter is alien ...
Our ship is not sent off in a good moment
And floats at the behest of all winds!

All paler azure island - childhood,
We are alone on deck.
Apparently sadness left a legacy
You, oh, mother, to your girls!

Mirok

Children are the looks of timid eyes,
Playful legs knock on the parquet,
Children are the sun in cloudy motifs,
A whole world of hypotheses of joyful sciences.

Eternal mess in gold rings,
Affectionate words whisper in a drowsiness,
Peaceful pictures of birds and sheep,
That in a cozy nursery doze on the wall.

Children are evening, evening on the couch,
Through the window, in the fog, sparkles of lanterns,
The measured voice of the tale of Tsar Saltan,
About mermaids-sisters of fabulous seas.

Children are rest, a moment of peace is short,
A quivering vow to God at the bed,
Children are tender riddles of the world,
And the answer lies in the riddles themselves!

In the Kremlin

Where millions of star lamps
Burning before the face of antiquity,
Where the ringing of the evening is sweet to the heart,
Where the towers are in love with the sky;
Where in the shadow of the air folds
Dreams roam transparently white -
I understood the meaning of past riddles,
I became an attorney of the moon.

Delirious, with broken breathing,
I wanted to know everything, to the bottom:
What mysterious suffering
The queen in the sky is betrayed
And why to centennial buildings
So gently clings, always alone ...
What on earth is called a legend, -
The moon told me everything.

In silk-embroidered covers,
At the windows of gloomy palaces,
I saw tired queens,
In whose eyes a quiet call froze.
I saw, as in old fairy tales,
Swords, crown and ancient coat of arms,
And in someone's children's, children's eyes
The light that pours a magic sickle.

Oh how many eyes from these windows
Looked...

Suicide

There was an evening of music and affection,
Everything in the garden was in bloom.
In his thoughtful eyes
Mom looked so bright!
When did she disappear into the pond
And the water calmed down
He understood - with a gesture of an evil rod
Her sorcerer took her there.
A flute sobbed from a distant dacha
In the radiance of pink rays ...
He understood - before he was someone else,
Now the beggar has become a nobody.
He shouted "Mom!" over and over again
Then he made his way, as if in delirium,
To bed without saying a word
About the fact that mommy is in the pond.
Though there is an icon above the pillow,
But scary! “Ah, come home!”
…He was crying quietly. Suddenly from the balcony
There was a voice: "My boy!"

In an elegant narrow envelope
Found her "I'm sorry": "Always
Love and sadness are stronger than death.”
Stronger than death ... Yes, oh yes! ..

In Paris

Houses up to the stars, and the sky below
The earth in a daze is close to him.
In big and joyful Paris
All the same secret longing.

Noisy evening boulevards
The last ray of dawn has faded
Everywhere, everywhere all couples, couples,
Trembling of the lips and insolence of the eyes.

I'm alone here. To the trunk of a chestnut
Cling so sweet head!
And Rostand's verse is crying in my heart
As there, in abandoned Moscow.

Paris at night is alien and pitiful to me,
Dearer to the heart is the old delirium!
I'm going home, there is sadness of violets
And someone's affectionate portrait.

There is someone's gaze sadly brotherly.
There's a delicate profile on the wall.
Rostand and the martyr of Reichstadt
And Sarah - everyone will come in a dream!

In big and joyful Paris
I dream of grass, clouds,
And further laughter, and the shadows are closer,
And the pain is still deep.

Paris, June 1909

Prayer

Christ and God! I want a miracle
Now, now, at the beginning of the day!
Oh let me die while
All life is like a book to me.

You are wise, you will not say strictly:
- "Be patient, the term is not over yet."
You gave me too much!
I thirst at once - all roads!

I want everything: with the soul of a gypsy
Go to the songs for robbery,
For all to suffer to the sound of the organ
And an Amazon to rush into battle;

Fortune telling by the stars in the black tower
Lead the children forward, through the shadow...
To be a legend - yesterday,
To be madness - every day!

I love the cross, and silk, and helmets,
My soul is a trace of moments ...
You gave me childhood - better than a fairy tale
And give me death - at seventeen!

Witch

I am Eva, and my passions are great:
All my life my passionate trembling!
My eyes are embers,
And the hair is ripe rye,
And cornflowers reach out to them from the bread.
My mysterious age is good.

Have you seen the elves in the midnight darkness
Through the smoke of a lilac fire?
I will not take jingling coins from you, -
I am the ghostly elves sister...
And if you throw a witch in prison,
That death in captivity is fast!

Abbots, on midnight watch,
Said, "Close your door
A mad sorceress whose speech is a disgrace.
The sorceress is crafty, like a beast!
- It may be true, but my eyes are dark,
I'm a mystery, but...

Ase (“The evening rumble in the dying dawn ...”)

The evening rumble in the dying dawn
At dusk on a winter day.

Remember me!
The emerald wave of the sea is waiting for you,
blue paddle splash,
To live our life underground, difficult
You couldn't.
Well, go, if our struggle is gloomy
He does not call to our ranks,
If transparent moisture is more tempting,
Silvery flight of seagulls!
The sun is hot, bright, hot
You say hello to me.
Put your question to everything strong, bright
There will be an answer!
The evening rumble in the dying dawn
At dusk on a winter day.
Third call. Hurry, departing
Remember me!

mischief

Eleven strikes in the dark living room.
Will something come up today?
The naughty mom won't let you sleep!
This mom is a total nerd!

Pull off, laughing, a blanket from his shoulder,
(Cry funny and try!)
Teasing, scaring, laughing, tickling
Sleepy sister and brother.

She loosened her scythe again with a cloak,
Jumping, definitely not a lady ...
She will not yield to children in anything,
That weird mommy!

The sister hid her face in the pillow,
Deeper gone in a blanket
A boy without a count kisses the ring
Gold on mom's finger ...

little page

This baby with an inconsolable soul
Was born to be a knight
For the smile of a beloved lady.
But she found it funny
Like naive dramas
This childhood passion.

He dreamed of a glorious death,
On the might of proud kings
The country where the luminary rises.
But she found it amusing
This idea was repeated:
- "Grow up quickly!"

He wandered alone and gloomy
Between drooping, silver grasses,
Everyone dreamed of tournaments, of a helmet ...
The blond boy was funny
Spoiled by everyone
For a mocking disposition.

Over the bridge leaning over the water,
He whispered (that last one was nonsense!)
- “Here she nods to me from there!”
Quietly sailed, illuminated by a star,
On the surface of the pond
Dark blue beret.

This boy came from a dream
Into a cold world...

————-
My meeting with Anastasia Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was short but memorable. There was nothing special about this meeting. But because this is Tsvetaeva, all non-singularity seems special to me.

I then studied in Moscow in Literary Institute, approximately in the second year. In those days, little was known about Marina Tsvetaeva. In the provinces of Russia, she was mostly unknown, but very popular among the students of the Literary Institute and the Moscow intelligentsia of that time.

It was a dull autumn day. I came to the publishing house Fiction for royalties for poetry. The cashier's window was tightly closed, which made me despondent. Sat down on the sofa. Nearby sat, in the same dull expectation, an elderly fragile woman.

The silence was unbearable, and we started talking. About this, about this. The main thing is that now I don’t remember the essence of the conversation, I only remember that the conversation flowed easily, and we laughed. The window still did not open, the cashier was not there. Apparently, everyone knew that the ticket office would be closed, except for the two of us. And we, talking about literature, unanimously came to the conclusion that, believing in the cashier's work schedule, we stumbled here like two fools, instead of calling and finding out. And then the woman added to this conclusion, I remember her saying verbatim:
“And not just two fools, but two hungry fools!”

And we laughed again, because she defined the essence very precisely. And both of us ate - yesterday, and both in the morning - drank only tea. And she, too, is sugar-free. Although I always drink without sugar.

Suddenly, the cashier showed up, saw us, angrily jerked her head and began to swear. Then she took pity and decided to give us the money we honestly earned.
When they signed the statement, she barked through the wooden window:
- Don't you see, Tsvetaeva, which line should be signed? I pointed my finger, you have to look!
I was surprised at the last name I heard, and then, when I received my sums, I expressed my displeasure to the woman:
- God! Why do you write under this name? You can live under this surname, but not write! Tsvetaeva is one. It is mediocre and blasphemous to create something under her name, or write in her style.
The woman smiled.
- What a hot intercessor! But I am Marina's sister. I can.
Here I petrified. Really two hours sitting near the cash register with Tsvetaeva?
Yes, it was.

Then we still talked while walking from the publishing house, but I already perceived everything differently, and embarrassment overcame me. And her image - fragile, and her look - very benevolent, and her speech - laid-back, still seem to me very significant moments in my life.
And if someone leads the threads of fate, and if He unexpectedly and playing (Anastasia Ivanovna and mine) twisted them for two hours in that lonely room, then I, without giving myself any weightiness, am very grateful to Him.

October, 2010
© Tatyana Smertina — Anastasia Tsvetaeva, Marina's sister — Tatiana Smertina.
It is forbidden to borrow a story without the consent of the author.

Anastasia Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (Marina's sister, writer, publicist) born September 14 (27), 1894, died at the age of 99 - September 5, 1993.
From 1902 to 1906 she lived with her sister Marina in Western Europe- the girls studied in private boarding schools in Germany and Switzerland.
At the age of 17 she married Boris Sergeevich Trukhachev (1893 - 1919), with whom she soon divorced. Then he died of typhus at the age of 26. From Trukhachev, Anastasia had a son, Andrei.

In 1915, Anastasia published her first book, a philosophical text imbued with the spirit of Nietzsche - "Royal Meditations".

Anastasia's second husband, Mavriky Alexandrovich Mints (1886 - 1917), died of peritonitis. His son, Alyosha, lived for one year (1916-1917).

In 1921, Anastasia was admitted to the Writers' Union.
At the age of 28, Anastasia Ivanovna took a vow of non-acquisitiveness, not eating meat, chastity and the prohibition of lies. And she kept it for the rest of her life.

In 1926 she completed The Hunger Epic and then SOS, or the Constellation of Scorpio, both of which failed to be published. In 1927 she went to Europe and in France she saw her sister Marina for the last time in her life.

In April 1933, Anastasia Tsvetaeva was arrested in Moscow, then, after the efforts of M. Gorky, she was released after 64 days.
In September 1937, Anastasia was arrested again and sent to a camp on Far East. During this arrest, all her writings were confiscated from the writer. Employees of the NKVD destroyed the fairy tales and short stories written by her. After that, she spent several years in the camp and several more in exile. She learned about the tragic death of her sister Marina in 1941, while in exile in the Far East.

Released from the camp in 1947, in 1948 Anastasia Tsvetaeva was again arrested and exiled to an eternal settlement in the village of Pikhtovka, Novosibirsk Region.

Anastasia Ivanovna was released after Stalin's death, in 1959 she was rehabilitated and began to live in Moscow.
She created the memoirs "Old Age and Youth" (published in 1988) and famous book"Memories".

Anastasia Ivanovna took great care of her sister's grave, which was buried at the Peter and Paul Cemetery in Yelabuga, in 1960 she erected a cross on the grave.
Then, thanks to the petition of Anastasia Ivanovna and a group of believers, in 1990, Patriarch Alexy 11 gave a blessing for the funeral of Marina Tsvetaeva, which took place on the fiftieth anniversary of her death in the Moscow Church of the Ascension of the Lord at the Nikitsky Gate.

Andrei Borisovich Trukhachev (1912–1993) - son of Anastasia Ivanovna Tsvetaeva from the first husband. In 1937 he graduated architectural institute, and on September 2 of the same year, together with his mother, he was arrested in Tarusa. Received a 5 year sentence. He served in the north, in the Karelian Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, working as a site foreman at the Belbalt plant.
In 1942 he was drafted into the army and sent to the Arkhangelsk district military building, where he worked as an engineer-dispatcher, designer and head of sections. And then until 1948 - in the village of Pechatkino, near Vologda, also the head of the sections for the construction of airfield and berthing facilities.

Royal Reflections - 1915
Smoke, smoke and smoke - a story - 1916
Hungry epic, 1927 - destroyed by the NKVD
SOS, or Constellation of Scorpio - destroyed by the NKVD
Old age and youth
Memories
Tale of the Moscow bell ringer
My only collection is poetry
My Siberia, 1988
Amor
Incomprehensible - published 1992
Inexhaustible - published 1992

Poems about the war by Marina Tsvetaeva

Here are collected all the poems of the Russian poet Marina Tsvetaeva on the topic Poems about the war.

I love these games, Where everyone is arrogant and evil. To enemies were tigers And eagles.

1 The bottom is a ravine. The night is a driftwood groping. Pine shakes.

“I like that you are not sick of me” Tsvetaeva - a love triangle

“I like that you are not sick with me” M.I. Tsvetaeva

I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that I'm not sick of you,
That never a heavy globe of the earth
Won't float under our feet.
I like that you can be funny -
Dissolute - and do not play with words,
And do not blush with a suffocating wave,
Lightly touching sleeves.

I also like that you are with me
Calmly hug another
Don't read to me in hellfire
Burn for the fact that I do not kiss you.
That my tender name, my gentle, not
You mention neither day nor night - in vain ...
What never in church silence
They will not sing over us: hallelujah!

Thank you with heart and hand
Because you me - not knowing yourself! -
So love: for my peace of the night,
For the rarity of meetings at sunset,
For our non-festivities under the moon,
For the sun, not over our heads, -
Because you are sick - alas! - not by me
Because I'm sick - alas! - not you!

The love lyrics of the poetess Marina Tsvetaeva is rightfully considered one of the priceless discoveries of Russian literature. silver age. Subtle, ironic, conveying the fullness of feelings, it will allow you to look at the author from a different perspective and find answers to many questions that concern not only literary critics, but also fans of Tsvetaeva's work.

The poem "I like ...", written in 1915 and made popular by the romance of the same name, brilliantly performed by the singer Alla Pugacheva, was a literary charade for many years. The biographers of Marina Tsvetaeva tried to understand to whom the poetess dedicated such heartfelt and not devoid of sadness lines. Who exactly inspired her to write such a penetrating and deeply personal work?

The answer to these questions was given only in 1980 by the sister of the poetess, Anastasia Tsvetaeva, who said that this bright and somewhat even philosophical poem was dedicated to her second husband, Marvikiy Mints. By 1915, both sisters had already been married, but their marriages were unsuccessful. Each of the women raised the child, no longer dreaming of arranging a personal life. According to the memoirs of Anastasia Tsvetaeva, Mavriky Mintz appeared on the threshold of her house with a letter from mutual friends and spent almost the whole day with the sister of the poetess. Young people found many topics for conversation, their views on literature, painting, music and life in general coincided in an amazing way. Therefore, soon Mavriky Mintz, captivated by the beauty of Anastasia, proposed to her. But another pleasant acquaintance awaited the happy groom. This time with Marina Tsvetaeva, who, at the age of 22, made an indelible impression on him not only as a talented poetess, but also as a very attractive woman.

Anastasia Tsvetaeva recalls that Mavriky Mintz showed her sister signs of attention, expressing his admiration and bowing to the poetess. Catching his gaze on herself, Marina Tsvetaeva blushed like a young schoolgirl, and could not do anything about it. However, mutual sympathy never grew into love, since by the time the poetess met Mauritius Mints, the latter was already engaged to Anastasia. Therefore, the poem “I like ...” became a kind of poetic response to the rumors and gossip of acquaintances, who even bet on the subject of who is in love with whom in the Tsvetaev family. Gracefully, lightly and femininely elegant, Marina Tsvetaeva put an end to this piquant story, although she admitted to her sister that she was seriously passionate about her fiancé.

Anastasia Tsvetaeva herself, until her death, was convinced that her sister, amorous by nature and not accustomed to hiding her feelings, simply showed nobility. The brilliant poetess, who by the time she met Mavriky Mints had published two collections of poems and was considered one of the most promising representatives of Russian literature in the first half of the 20th century, won the heart of any man, not to mention "a little red-haired Jew with a strange surname." However, Marina Tsvetaeva did not want to hurt her own sister and destroy the emerging union. For herself, the poetess learned a very important lesson from the current situation, for the rest of her life, realizing that love and passion, which is more like a mental illness, are by no means identical concepts. After all, the disease passes, and true feelings persist for years, which was confirmed by a happy, but such a short marriage between Anastasia Tsvetaeva and Mauritius Mints, which lasted only 2 years. The man to whom the poem “I like ...” was dedicated died in Moscow on May 24, 1917 from an attack of acute appendicitis, and his widow never married again.

. Quotes

On this page you will find all the quotes that our users have found and added to the project in the author's books. Use sorting by parameters or search to find the quotes you are interested in.

“It seems that even the Holocaust did not make the majority of Jews doubt the existence of an omnipotent and good God. If a world in which half of your people are burned in ovens doesn't disprove the existence of an almighty God who cares for you, then such refutation simply does not exist.

". in the eyes of the authorities, and in the eyes of subordinates, it is also always better to look like a conscientious blockhead than a brilliant, but grabbing talent.”

“Good, of course, it was a way out, but it was too bad”

“Be that as it may, friends say that the changes will begin later. A person can suddenly see that the obsessions that he suffered all his life have disappeared, negative, firmly established patterns of behavior have changed. Minor irritants that once drove me crazy suddenly ceased to seem like a tragedy, and terrible past misfortunes that never left me no longer want to endure even five minutes. Relationships that poison life evaporate by themselves or are thrown away as unnecessary, and cheerful, more positive people enter your world.

“These words, these documents remind me of the light of dead stars. We still see it, and the stars themselves went out a long time ago.

“Hatred robs you of strength, but does not harm your enemy in any way. It's kind of like drinking poison while wishing death on your opponent."

“Everyone has a past. But people will take him to the grave if we don't find and record their stories. This is immortality."

“Only the dead did everything possible”

“Baroque wit is the ability to bring dissimilar things together. Baroque art pays special attention to the imagination, the idea, which must be witty, striking with novelty. Baroque allows the ugly, the grotesque, the fantastic into its sphere. The principle of bringing opposites together replaces the principle of measure in Baroque art (this is how Bernini turns a heavy stone into the finest drapery of fabric; sculpture gives a picturesque effect; architecture becomes like frozen music; the word merges with music; the fantastic is presented as real; the merry turns tragic). The combination of plans of the super-real, mystical and naturalistic is first present in the aesthetics of the Baroque, then manifests itself in romanticism and surrealism.

“No one is perfect, therefore, in addition to your own opinion, you need to know the opinion of others. A person who is always right arouses more suspicion than one who admits his mistakes. The Italian writer Giovanni della Casa, in his treatise On Morals of 1558, laments that a person always and in everything wants to be right. Everyone wants to win the argument, equally afraid of losing both a weapon duel and a verbal duel. Therefore, della Casa, like the authors of later treatises, teaches you to use softer, unobtrusive expressions if you want to achieve a goal.

I believe that Tsvetaeva is the first
poet of the 20th century. Of course, Tsvetaeva.
I. Brodsky

The red color, festive, cheerful and at the same time dramatically intense, chooses Tsvetaev as a sign of his birth:

This "red brush of mountain ash" contains the fullness of the manifestation of vital and creative forces poetess, an emotional and poetic explosion, the maximalism of her poetry, and - a breakdown, a future tragic death.

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born on September 26 (October 8), 1892 in a Moscow professorial family: father I.V. Tsvetaev - founder of the Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow, mother of M.A. Main - pianist, student of A.G. Rubinstein (died 1906). Due to the illness of her mother, Tsvetaeva lived for a long time in Italy, Switzerland, and Germany in her childhood.

The first books of poetry were The Evening Album (1910) and The Magic Lantern (1912).

In 1918-1922, Tsvetaeva, along with her children, was in revolutionary Moscow, her husband S. Efron fought in the White Army (poems of 1917-1921, full of sympathy white movement, made up the cycle "Swan camp"). From 1922 to 1939, Tsvetaeva was in exile, where she went after her husband. These years were marked by everyday disorder, complex relationships with the Russian emigration, the hostile attitude of criticism.

In the summer of 1939, following her husband and daughter Ariadna, Tsvetaeva and her son Georgy returned to their homeland. In the same year, the husband and daughter were arrested (S. Efron was shot in 1941, Ariadne was rehabilitated in 1955). M. Tsvetaeva's poems were not published, there was no work or housing. At the beginning of the war (August 31, 1941), being evacuated to Yelabuga (now Tatarstan), in a state of depression, M. Tsvetaeva committed suicide.

The main works of Tsvetaeva: poetry collections "Evening Album", "Magic Lantern", "Mile", "Separation", "Poems to Blok", "Craft", "Psyche", "After Russia", "Swan Camp"; the poems "The Tsar Maiden", "Well Done", "The Poem of the Mountain", "The Poem of the End", "The Ladder", "The Poem of the Air", the satirical poem "The Pied Piper", "Perekop"; tragedy "Ariadne", "Phaedra"; prose works “My Pushkin”, memories of A. Bely, V.Ya. Bryusov, M.A. Voloshin, B.L. Pasternak, "The Tale of Sonechka" and others.

Among the lyrical poems of Marina Tsvetaeva there are many sad and sad

note. But the fate of Marina Tsvetaeva, and her family, and all our grandmothers and

grandfathers of that time - ruthless time, the time of the First World War,

Revolution, Stalin's concentration camps and the Second World War ... It was a time of loss,

a time of pain, suffering and poverty. Therefore, even through the great vitality of Marina

Tsvetaeva slips now and then sad, sad poems not only about love, but also

about life, about the sad fate of the Russian people.

I like that you are not sick of me

I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that I'm not sick of you,
That never a heavy globe of the earth
Won't float under our feet.

I like being funny
Dissolute - and do not play with words,
And do not blush with a suffocating wave,
Lightly touching sleeves.

I also like that you are with me
Calmly hug another
Don't read to me in hellfire
Burn for the fact that I do not kiss you.

That my tender name, my gentle, not
You mention neither day nor night - in vain ...
What never in church silence
They will not sing over us: hallelujah!

Thank you with heart and hand
Because you me, not knowing yourself!
So love: for my peace of the night,
For the rarity of meetings at sunset.

For our non-festivities under the moon,
For the sun, not above our heads,
Because you are sick - alas! - not by me
Because I'm sick - alas! - not you!

I did not love, but I cried.

I did not love, but I cried. No, I didn't, but still
Only you pointed out in the shadows the adored face.
Everything in our dream was not like love: No reasons, no evidence.

Only this image nodded to us from the evening hall,
Only we - you and I - brought him a mournful verse.
Adoration thread tied us stronger,
Than love - others.

But the impulse passed, and someone approached affectionately,
Who could not pray, but loved. Do not rush to judge!
You will be remembered to me like the most tender note
In the awakening of the soul.

In this sad soul you wandered, as in an unlocked house.
(In our house, in the spring...) Don't call me who has forgotten!
I filled all my minutes with you, except
The saddest thing is love.

I would like to live with you

I would like to live with you
In a small town,
Where is the eternal twilight
And eternal bells.

And in a small village inn
subtle ringing
Antique clocks are like droplets of time.

And sometimes in the evenings
From some attic - Flute.

And the flutist himself in the window,
And big tulips on the windows.
And maybe you would even
I was not loved...

Would you lie - how am I
I love you: lazy,
Indifferent, carefree.
Occasionally a rare crackle Matches.

The cigarette burns and goes out,
And trembles for a long, long time at its end
Gray short column of ashes.
You are too lazy to shake it off,
And all the cigarette flies into the fire...

Gypsy passion of separation.

Gypsy passion of separation!
You meet a little - you are already torn away.
I dropped my forehead into my hands
And I think, looking into the night:

No one, rummaging through our letters,
Didn't understand deeply
How treacherous we are, that is -
How true to yourself.

With great tenderness

With great tenderness - because
That I will soon leave everyone
I'm wondering who
Get wolf fur

To whom - a softening blanket
And a thin cane with a greyhound,
To whom - my silver bracelet,
Buried in turquoise...

And all the notes, and all the flowers,
Which can't be kept...
My last rhyme - and you,
My last night!

This sad verse is very autobiographical: after all, during the Soviet era, her husband Sergei Efron was shot, her daughter was imprisoned, no one hired her, even as a dishwasher, and on August 31, 1941, Marina Tsvetaeva could not stand all the hardships and hardships of the new one, Soviet life and committed suicide. So it's not just the words "My last night!"

Rowan.

mountain ash
Chopped
Dawn.

Rowan -
fate
Bitter.

Rowan -
gray-haired
Descents.

Rowan!
fate
Russian.

You are a stranger to me

You are a stranger to me and not a stranger,
Native and non-native
Mine and not mine! going to you
Home - I won't say "visit"
And I won't say "home".

Love is like a fiery furnace:
And yet the ring is a big thing,
And yet the altar is a great light.
God did not bless!

Not kissed - kissed

They didn’t kiss - they kissed.
They didn’t speak - they breathed.
Maybe - you did not live on earth,
Maybe - only a cloak hung on a chair.

Maybe - for a long time under a flat stone
Calmed down your tender age.
I felt like wax
Little dead woman in roses.

I put my hand on my heart - it does not beat.
So easy without happiness, without suffering!
So it's gone - what people call
In the world - a love date.

Every verse is a child of love

Every verse is a child of love
Beggar illegitimate.
Firstborn - at the rut
To bow to the winds - laid.

Heart - hell and an altar,
Heart - heaven and shame.
Who is the father? Maybe the king
Maybe a king, maybe a thief.

Love! Love!

Love! Love! And in convulsions, and in the coffin
I will be alert - I will be seduced - I will be embarrassed - I will rush.
Oh honey! Not in a coffin snowdrift,
I won’t say goodbye to you in the cloud.

And not for that I have a pair of beautiful wings
Dana to keep pounds on the heart.
Swaddled, eyeless and voiceless
I will not multiply the miserable liberty.

No, I will free my hands, the camp is elastic
With a single wave from your swaddling clothes,
Death, I'll beat you! - A thousand miles in the district
The snows are melted - and the forest of bedrooms.

And if everything is - shoulders, wings, knees
Squeezing - she let herself be taken to the churchyard,
It is only then that, laughing at decay,
Rise up with a verse - or bloom like a rose!

Error.

When a snowflake that flies easily
Like a fallen star gliding,
You take it with your hand - it melts like a tear,
And it can't be returned to air.

When captivated by the transparency of the jellyfish,
We will touch it with the whim of our hands,
She is like a prisoner in bonds
Suddenly turns pale and suddenly dies.

When we want in wandering moths
To see not a dream, but an earthly reality:
Where is their outfit? From them on our fingers
One dawn painted dust!

Leave flying snowflakes with moths
And do not ruin the jellyfish on the sands!
You can't grab your dream with your hands,
You can't keep your dream in your hands!

It is impossible for what was unsteady sadness,
To say: "Be a passion! Grieve madness, rejoice!"
Your love was such a mistake
But without love, we perish. Wizard!

Your tender mouth is a solid kiss...

Your tender mouth is a solid kiss...
- And that's all, and I'm just like a beggar.
Who am I now? - United? - No, a thousand!
Conqueror? - No, conquest!

Is it love - or love,
Feather a whim - or the root cause,
Is it languishing according to the rank of an angel,
Or a little pretense - by vocation ...

Soul sorrow, eyes charm,
Is it a stroke of a pen - ah! - doesn't matter,
What will this mouth be called - how long
Your tender mouth is a solid kiss!