Автор: papadok
Дата: 09-05-11 13:37
Заглавието на темата е камуфлажно.
В памет на тези, които не се завърнаха... пък били те немци, руснаци или грузинци.
RIBBON OF SAINT GEORGE
A spring forest is flying-by behind the windows.
I am riding a Leningrad suburban train.
A little girl is sitting across from me.
She has Ribbon of Saint George in her braid.
Today one can wear this ribbon
On one's handbag, or in the form of a brooch,
But I remember clearly without the ribbons
How my grandma never threw away the breadcrumbs.
We hear a lot of superfluous words on Victory Day,
But this syrupy unctuousness is not very much believed
By those who at the age of ten had to sustain
Themselves mainly on carpenter's glue.
The passage of time multiplies everything by zero
And replaces one generation by another, so that...
The extenuated pain of the war shows up
Only as a spring exacerbation.
Many circle around this pain
Like crows and seagulls.
As if they want to snatch their very own piece
Of the concrete heroic blockade
I am riding the train and looking at it all:
Through the window, at the little girl with her beautiful eyes,
But behind the window those soldiers lie
And sprout as new forests.
I am passing through the ominous places,
Where a person is the main treasure beneath the soil,
Where soldiers lie since the war
With the density of three per square meter.
Steps and voices are heard there...
And odd lights are seen on the swamps.
Shadows sing to you during the night
As if they ask and want something:
"Dig me out pal. I'm Alexandr Vershinin,
The fifth mortar regiment. I'm from Ryazan.
You've seen a lot of versions about soldiers in the movies.
Now you will listen to mine; bet it'll be more interesting."
So they start to tell their tales
In the language of moans and unfinished thoughts.
You want to run away, but again they glimmer
Just ahead between pine trees.
"Hurry to dig me out, I beg you again.
I'm Sregey Morshannokov, born near Pskov.
Pass my address to my home village:
It's the 18th grid square, the black shell hole."
Then everything will roar and fly somewhere at dawn,
And then push forward on the machine gun, with bayonets and cursing;
And trees are all uprooted down: roots growing upwards...
At this glorious battle place of crime
It is a miraculous place. Forests are like in fairy tales:
Step on a bump, look at it, this is a helmet.
Dig a little deeper and you find a pot and a spoon.
But above all of this cloudberries just grow.
The month of May is in its full bloom and beauty.
The train is approaching the Apraksin Station.
А gaggle of geese is in the sky. Summer will soon come.
The little girl is fixing the ribbon in her braid.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5Nk0Mo0ki0
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