Author of quotes: Bella Akhmadulina Ahatovna

Was spinning me lies,
similar to the crow.
But the last time say goodbye.
In the eyes not blue or black.
Oh, live, not sad,
and I did nothing.
But all in vain,
but how ridiculous!
You go to the right.
I go to the left.

House near the sea. About you -
Only you, only me in this house.
And unknown forms of flowers
You bring and keep in the palm of your hand.
And only one of
The sea, the sea around - no limit!
We slept. And its depth
Were coming in the window looked.
We ran to him in the morning
And it us took over,
And flowed over her shoulders, hands,
And easily chill was getting through.
<...>
It will blend: sea you,
All your sadness, mystery and charm,
And unknown forms of flowers
And grass withering charm.
In every word of your nightingales
Sang, wings fluttered.
Was lips your salty
Your hair low fell...
Again the sea. And again Bela
Edge of the foam. And eternity.
Have you been? In fact was?
Or not? I don't know.

I'm only a volume, inhabited by something
what small earthly names.

Alone amongst the shame
I stand with drooping shoulders.

But careless crowd
The real hero is not visible.
Hero, how scary for you!
Don't worry, I won't betray you.

But in this disgraceful dream
I went before the audience cruel -
All trouble, all in the mind,
All in this role alone.

You would not forgive me the obvious
shameless my losses,
innocence of my smile.

What a labour - run hands along the table?
It is a rest, a reward for the flour
when the dark heaviness of the forehead
rested in his right hand.

Not acting and not breathing,
all the sweeter objret hive.
Deeper fall, and the soul
all experienced and are rounded.
She is involved in the ebb
fruit from a trifle empty
cast. As painstaking
work in the fall, how hard a word.

April has no sign may
yeah, may not see you ever,
and breaks Ivan-da-Marya.
Oh, yellow and blue feud!
Your plants Watervliet summer
longitude pulled away from the latitudes,
and white there is no color -
seven colored orphans.

Here I stand - no woman, no girl,
and the wind pats me on the shoulder.
I am a small, small branch.
Gardener, assuage my grief.
Gardener, interpose yourself from the wind:
he ruins my petals.
What I would do - a small branch?
I have no words, no hands.

... In this world, where autumn where pink baby face
where the words of a lonely soul, hustle hard,
there's someone...
He watches that flew the quietest leaves
and administers the universe a high rite of silence.

You say that is not reasonable.
My argument, but it seems to me,
that he who in reality draws
sometimes draws in a dream.
This whole little story
attempt to guess how
administers the Artist serious search
and that lives in his pupils.

Left, atspecial. To the soul
cling tide simple truths.
The way of conscience elected already
and now I'm independent.
He will come this moment or a year:
the meaning of unexpected bliss, versendet...
Only old age is lacking.
The rest is already done.