Talk to Celestial

Here, on the ground,
where I fell in earnest, the heresy,
where he lived, in other people's memories basking,
like a mouse in the ash,
where the worst mouse
He gnaws petit native vocabulary,
thee a stranger, Where, благодаря
you, I gaze over the,

has anybody
I see places, whose verb
could touch, not owning throat,
choking nod
carrion-voiced, saliva
sprinkling mouth instead Kastal'skaya moisture,
heeling Leaning Tower Paper
in the darkness of night,

you your gift
I return - not buried, not propyl;
and, if the soul had a profile,
you'd saw,
that she
just cast a sorrowful Gift,
that nothing more had,
that together with him to see you facing.

I will not burn
you verb, Confess, request,
accursed questions - that smallpox,
which deals
almost with the linen
infected - who knows? - Do not you;
reliable, i.e, way of pain
you deleted.

I will not wait
your answers, Angel, poeliku
so little idea canonized,
as your, matched,
must be, only
silence - so spacious, that echo
it is not vouchsafed no laughter bursts,
no cry: "Hear!»

That's me
and blaznit hearing, accustomed to very different,
and facilitates a conversation with you
The Ark of the chick,
not returning, evidence to, what
All faith is no more, than almost
one way.

see Well, as, Nag
and cheese, žloblûsʹ the Lord, и это
one will save you from answering.
But it is - a sign of acknowledgment and,
that poverty
vlachaschih days will not fear theft,
I put the idea of ​​camouflage.
There, on the cross,

not vozoplyu: "Almost left me?!»
Are turned himself in the good news!
Since the pain - not a violation of the rules:
suffering is
the ability of bodies,
and the man is a test of pain.
But whether your unknown to him, that
its limit.


Here, on the ground,
all the mountains - but in the sense of their narrow –
end no peaks, but the descent
in pitch darkness,
and, clenched mouth,
stigmata wrapped in his sackcloth,
go at things in the second round,
came down from the cross.

Here, on the ground,
from tenderness to insanity
All life forms have adapted.
And including
at the ceiling
and the desire to merge with God, how the landscape,
in which we are looking for, let us say,
one arrow.

As on the nozzle,
all hangs on hooks of your questions,
as a thief in the tram, or philosopher bard –
here, on the ground,
from all angles
bears, like a fish, with the right hand and the left
fusion with nature or with a virgin
and the words of the tower!

Spirit Healer!
I'm from the bottomless Moser dishes
so I swallowed the brew minutes
and Roman letters,
that greedy ears,
which was not particularly fussy,
It does not include Twitter or sound of trees –
I'm now deaf.

Oh no, not help
call your, aforesaid heights!
Since no hugs, so as not to split
like arrows at midnight.
Not'm burning candles,
when, opening his iron grip,
alarm clocks, wrapped in a dress,
thunder in the night!

And in this tower,
granddaughter in Babylon, in the tower of words,
Total unfilled, you shelter
found not give me!
such silence
there, upstairs, meets zlatorotca,
what, climbing to the attic, fly
at the bottom of the well.

There, upstairs –
hear one: thank you for, what
you took all, than in his lifetime
I owned. For create a solid,
product of labor
have food thief and a prototype of Paradise,
true - production time: losing
(let all)

anything, you
Do not you dare cry of hope betrayed:
the Time, unseen before,
in things features
suddenly appear the, and close the chest
by senile wrinkles; but these lines –
they are not smoothed, melting as frost,
touch their little.

Thank you…
Verneuil, mind the last vestiges
thanks, that gave cleave
those kuscham, Shells and dictionary,
you do not follow suit
my inclinations, kompleksam nuisance
I came - and have not delivered their pitiful forms
I have the power.


You for loss
Gorazd find all this vengeance,
my adaptation to the dial,
wrestling, merger with Time - God knows!
to full, I l!
And if so - what with not a short time,
then fancies that for each disc
in the wall - the tunnel.

Well then, Roy!
Roy deeper and, how to break the meat,
Shay heart fear of melancholy at times,
before the hour of death.
Shay abyss of anguish,
try, overdo in zeal!
But even the thought - his! - immortality
I have thought about loneliness, my friend.

Here the phrase
I want to cry out and see
forward - once the prospect of dying
see eye –
who from a distance
responds? Is Echo follow?
Or it there and did not meet an obstacle,
How on earth?

quiet Night…
Knocks on the head against the table, fell asleep, extramural.
Brick excites spine
furnace mouse.
And outside the window
crowd trees in a wooden frame,
as the light on the school chart,
enveloped in a dream.

All split off…
And time. And the fate of. And the fate of…
There was only a memory of himself,
low voice.
She is one.
And then - as slag blown, gravel,
at the expense of some letters, pictures,
mirrors, окна, –

and bitterly, do not remember the main!
What a pity, that there is no God in Christianity –
let god –
memories, with a handful of keys
the old rooms - Idol-faced
junk - for korotaniya too
deaf nights.

quiet Night.
crow's nest, as a cavity in the bronchi.
Rags smoke digging in the ruins
hospital roof.
Any speech
unaddressed, Alas, about this time –
what I was able to, one-celestial, dispute
not, neglected.

Good. Night.
And taste in the mouth of the life in this world,
as if the heritage in someone else's apartment
and went away!
And the brain energized!
And there, on the floor of Far Far Away
lit window. AND, it seems, already
not really remember,

what you
declaim - return, with one of the dolls,
crossing the midnight canopy.
Now hang up,
and a clue,
Why are so many black-on-white?
The larynx comes pencil and chalk,
and in it - a lump

no words, no tears,
but the strange thoughts of snow victory –
light waste, falling from the sky, –
almost a question.
In the brain bitter,
and by the wall thickness of the page
screaming baby, and in the hospital window
old sticks.

April. Good. Everything is going to spring.
But the world is still in the ice and in white.
And look baby,
has not yet begun steps,
prevents melting snow.
But not escape
by the same thought - backwards –
the old man in the hospital at the beginning of the year:
He sees and knows the snow, he would die
before thawing it, to ice drift.

March, April 1970

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Joseph Brodsky
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