Бродский - новые стансы к августе
текст песни

M. B.

I

On Tuesday, September began.
Rain poured all night.
All birds flew away.
Only I am so lonely and brave,
that I did not even look after them.
The deserted sky is destroyed,
The rain pulls the clearance.
I do not need the south.

II

Here, buried alive,
I wander my chewing at dusk.
My boot is torn by the field
Wakes up on me Thursday,
but cut stems climb up,
Almost not feeling pain.
And the rods of the verb,
Sticky pinkish cape
In the swamp where the security was removed,
mutter, overturning down
Zhulan's nest.

III

Knock and squish, bubble, rustles.
I will not speed up my step.
Only a spark is known to you
Hasi, carcasses.
A frozen palm pressing to the thigh,
I get crazy from Bug to Bugra,
without memory, with one sound,
The sole on the stones knock.
Leaning towards a dark stream
I look with fright.

IV

Well, let the shadow lay down senselessness
in my eyes, and let dampness be absorbed
my beard, and the cap is a bunker -
crowning this dusk, reflected
like the feature that the soul
Do not cross -
I'm not striving already
For a visor, for a button, for the gate,
For your boot, for your sleeve.
Only the heart suddenly clogs, finding
that somewhere I am in prosperity: cold
He shakes him, getting into my chest.

V

Water mutters before me,
And the frost stretches in the gap of the mouth.
You can’t utter otherwise: what can
be not a face, but a place where the cliff is
Did it happen?
And my laughter is crooked
And the gloomy decay is worried.
And crumbles the darkness of the rain.
And my second image is like a person,
Running away from the reddish age,
jumps on the wave
under the pine trees, then under the willow,
interferes with other doubles,
How never to get lost to me.

VI

Knock and squish, chew a rotten bridge.
Let the freebie, surrounding the churchyard,
Crosy paint sucks.
But even that end of the grass
Do not add blue swamp ...
Topchi Ovina,
Bushui among the dense foliage,
invade the roots in the depths!
And there, in the ground, as here, in my chest
Wake all the ghosts and dead,
And let them run, cutting off the corner,
by the reinforcement to empty villages
And they wave the flying days,
Like Pu'gal hats!

VII

Here on the hills, among empty heaven,
Among the roads leading only to the forest,
Life recedes from itself
and looks with amazement at the forms,
noisy around. And the roots
clogs into a boot, sniff
And all the lights go out in the village.
And here I am delirious on a draw
And I ask for a rental of non -existence,
And the wind tears warm from my hands,
and splashes over me with water hollow,
And twists the dirt of the path of the tape.

VIII

Yes, as if there really are not me here,
I am somewhere to the side, overboard.
Puffs and climbs up the stubborn,
like a hair on a dead body,
and above the nest, in the grass, prostrated,
The ants boils.
Nature straightens out with the past,
As usual. But her face at the same time -
Let it flooded with sunset light -
Involuntarily done evil.
And all five feelings -five -
I push off from the forest:
No, Lord! In the eyes of the veil,
And I will not turn into a judge.
And if you have your own
I still do not delight with myself,
You, God, cut my palm,
Like Finn for theft.

IX

Friend Polydevk, everything merged into the spot.
A wall will not break out of my lips.
Here I am standing in an open coat,
And the world flows into the eyes through the sieve,
Through the sieve of misunderstanding.
I'm deaf. I, God, is blind.
I do not hear words, and at exactly twenty watts