Александр Твардовский - По дороге на Берлин
текст песни

On the way to Berlin
On the way to Berlin
The gray feather is curls.
The wires of the silent lines,
Branches soaked linden
The feather of the feather bed was puffed like hook
On the sides of the machines sticking.
And wheels of guns, kitchens
Dirt and snow interfere with fluff.
And falls on the overcoat
With fluff, a wet snowstorm ...
Boring climate overseas,
Alien land is red -brick,
But the war by itself
And the earth trembles habitually
Crushing crushed stone is tile
Drinking from the roofs ...
Mother Russia, we are half a might
Your wheels passed
Leaving behind somewhere
Your rivers is a headstock.
Long, long after the convoy
To the edge of a stranger stretched after
The white color of your birch
And on the way he came to naught.
With the Volga, with ancient Moscow
How far you are!
Between us and you -
Three not our languages.
The late day is not Russian
Above the wrong side.
Crushing tile crushed stone
Wet in a puddle under the wall.
Everywhere inscriptions, marks,
Arrows, signs, badges,
Wire grid rings,
Fence, doors, cells -
Everything is on purpose for longing ...
Mother Earth is our native,
In the days of trouble and in the days of victories
No you are brighter and more beautiful
And there is no more desirable to the heart.
Thinking about the soldier
Not predicted to fate,
Even lie in the grave of the brotherly
It seems better in you.
And all the miles to the house,
Get to you to the living
Come to those parts:
- Hello, my homeland!
Your warrior, servant of the people,
With honor it can report:
Fought for four years
Rated from the campaign
And now he wants to live.
He fulfilled the duty for glory
Thy war of the banners.
Who else has the right
Love you like him!
Changing day and night in battles,
Without taking off the caps per month,
Your warrior, defender-son,
Walked, hurried to you, dear,
On the way to Berlin ...
On the road imminent
Pooh Perin is swirling with a cloud.
Cities burned out of scrap
It smells of a jacked pen.
And under the roar of the cannonade
East, from darkness and stench,
Like from hell
The people flow along the highway.
Shocked, scorched
All blood, diverse,
Gorky, pack, walking ...
East - one route.
East, through smoke and soot,
From one prison deaf
Europe is going on home.
Pooh Perin above her purge.
And on a Russian soldier
Brother Frenchman, British brother,
Brother Pole and all in a row
With friendship as if guilty
But they look cordial.
At an unknown intersection
For some counter -moment -
They themselves reach for a hairstyle
Hands of the girls dumb.
And from those speeches, smiles
The soldier himself is filled with paint:
Here is Europe, and thanks
Everyone speaks Russian.
He stands, liberator
Online hat with a star.
I, they say, help an amateur,
I am about that simple.
Like, such a service is our
Other flags are not reproached ...
- Hey, where are you, mother?
- And there,- home, son.
In a stranger, on the way, it is far away,
In the variegated gathering of human
Suddenly the words of a native speech,
Grandmother in a fur coat, with a manual.
Old age, but not decrepitude
It is harnessed to that mm.
In the roadside cross
The whole scarf is braided.
I greeted and got up,
A fellow countryman to match,
Village, simple
Our Trinitsa Trinity.
Mother of the Holy Eternal Power
From unknown mothers,
That in work are not worn out
And in any trouble;
That fate, repeated
On Earth a hundred times in a row,
And grow in love of sleepless,
And they lose us, soldiers;
And they live, and they will not turn their hands,
Do not close their eyes
If you are still needed, maybe
Grandchildren instead of sons.
Mother alone in a foreign land somewhere!
- Is it far to the yard?
- To the yard? There is no yard
And because of the Dnieper herself ...
Wait, guys, is not good
To that with a stub
I went home from abroad
Soldier's mother on foot.
No, dear, in order
Let us do, do not bother.
Firstly, the horse
Get with a complete harness.
Get equipment,
Cover your legs with a rug.
And you also a cow
Together with the dedicated sheep.
On the road-road kettle with a mug
Yes, a bucket in reserve,
Yes the perink, yes by