Author of quotes: Iosif Aleksandrovich Brodsky. Page 3

Not the tenant of these places,
not dead, as some kind of broker,
all alone
you scream about yourself at the end:
no one found out
was mistaken, forgotten, disappointed,
thank God, winter. So, I will not back.

Not to death or not,
we don't find her, not find.
From birth into the light
every day somewhere to go,
as if someone far away
in new buildings plays perfectly.
Scatter all. Only the death of one of us collects.

Raise your cry,
to houses him not to run...

In a bright red muffler
and cloak in the doorways, in front
you're on mind
on the bridge near years irreversible...

Before me the river
sprawled under stone-coal smoke,
behind the tram
thundered on the bridge unharmed
and brick fences
brightened suddenly the gloom.
Good day, here we met a poor youth.

That look, that from the lake holes
anyway - through any puddle
here climb outside world.
Or this will crawl out.

Two things justify the existence of man on earth: love and creativity.

To say that no
You? But what
In my hand are so similar
With you?

All alien in the house to a new tenant.
A hasty glance glides on all items
whose shadows the stranger not to face,
they themselves too are suffering it.
But the house does not want to be empty.
And, as if for lack of the courage,
the castle, unable to see
one resists the darkness.
Yeah, the similarities there is between the current and the
who made here the cabinets and the table and thought
I won't leave these walls;
but I had to leave, went and died.
Nothing if they can't be connect:
feature of the person, character, breakdown.
But between them there is a thread
commonly referred to as house.

Thing. Brown
Things. Whose contour is erased.
Twilight. No more
Nothing. Still life.
Death will come and find
The body, whose surface visit
Death, same parish
Women reflect.
This is absurd, a lie:
Skull, skeleton, scythe.
Death will come, she
Will your eyes.

Well that ends the night.
You see the day approaching.
Save my shadow.

Yes, there were burned body, the creature.
But only the night sullen whispers in my ear,
this ash hid his spirit,
and this horror - form the life of the spirit.

I visited the ashes. Well, Yes, a stranger.
Related but something in it lurks,
even though we split this between...
No, any diamonds he does not hide.
Only twilight was creeping from all sides.
Rattled the tram. And the snow glistened in flight.
But, falling on the ashes, melted it,
how melted would be touching my flesh.
Surely something was smoldering down there
although the wind and rain all swept away.
But ash stops for weight
but not too far away.

I was simply blind.
You, appearing, hiding,
gave me racest.
So leave a mark.
So worlds are created.
So, having created them, often
leave to rotate,
lavishing gifts.
So, throw the heat,
in cold, in light, in darkness,
in the lost universe,
spinning the ball.