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Saturday, December 3, 2016

Alexander Aronov: “I am a king was a pretty decent”


Alexander Aronov… Sasha… You’re not there 15 years. A lot or a little — it is not important. You don’t — that’s scary. Without you something is wrong in this world that you could so easily put into words. Or strip — till its shamelessness. And then words, words, words…

Such a simple, but very importantimportant was able to speak to the pain of the heart muscle or cramps. You fly well in the autumn sky, and winter. The years go by and you’re younger, not going to complain. And you know, you’re right — “can, it appears, to fly and never fall”.

The day of remembrance of our beloved Sasha Aronov we publish his poems.

■ ■ ■

I king was pretty nice,
I approached my land.
But people, oddly enough,
Prefer is without a king.

I lights, like the dot,
Shouted something aperitiv.
So I went one night,
The door is not closed behind him.

Serving in the newspaper for food,
I slowly get used to the role,
And forget this secret
What once I was the king.

To be a journalist not a bit boring
A lot of freedom in such a fate.
But at night you lie silently
And smiling to himself.

■ ■ ■

The prophet

He lived without bread and without mercy.
But, in our entering the village,
Met he as very warm,
Smiles and good looks,
And a lot easier as time went on,
And we really were happy

But the mirror glass:

And we really were happy
And a lot easier as time went on,
Smiles and good attitudes
Met he as very warm,
But, in our entering the village,
He lived without bread and without mercy.

■ ■ ■

“When the ghetto was burning…”

When the ghetto was burning
When the ghetto was burning
Warsaw marveled
Four days in a row.
And there were so many cod,
And there was so much light,
And the people said,
— The bugs are burning.

And a quarter of a century
Two wise man
We sat for a bottle
Good wine,
And I said Janusz,
Thinker and colleague:
Russian Poland
It has its own wine.

Why are you in the 45th
Stood in front of the Vistula?
Warsaw dies!
Who will she live?
And I told him: — First
He was worth was not enough,
In and out, using
You can not rush.

— Warsaw uprising
Crushed and creased,
The Warsaw uprising
Drowned in blood.
Better that I die,
The ladies killed his brother —
With great quiver in her voice
Said my counterpart.

And I told him this:
When the ghetto was burning
When the ghetto was burning
Four days in a row
And there were so many cod,
And there was so much light,
And you said:
“The bugs are burning”.

■ ■ ■

I look like a madman in a black shawl,
And frigid soul tormented by grief.
A. S. Pushkin

What about now? About this black shawl?
What is the difference, in the end what?
The words began to move and so easy to breathe,
And booming World crowded shoulder.

About the city to forget the hateful power.
Between the poor potratila the basics.
And to teach Russia happiness
Move and drive big waves of words.

As the eighth day at the sixth time of the year
Here, from dawn to dark,
Can not be that all this
freedom
Left suddenly empty and not needed.

What would we the problem solved —
From the will to ruinous war
They now converged on a black shawl.
And will be hell allowed.

■ ■ ■

Leonid Jugowicka

To stop, look
Suddenly, at the bend,
On that random floor
Where you get to Wake up.

A boot in snow Scriba,
To stop, look,
To see the day, at home, yourself
And quietly smile…

After leaving, not to return,
I did not wanted to replay,
To stop, look
And never die!

I agree at least agree to the steppe,
Slip, disappear, to Wake up to
But let me once more time

To stop, look back.
Published
in “Moskovsky Komsomolets”
March 10, 1968

source

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