Author of quotes: Gregory Pozhenyan

And I told those who are meek:
why you do not hear the voice of trouble?
And I spoke to those below the grass:
how to know you eye color without lifting the head?
And I was saying in the mouth with stones:
said - not terrible, terrible silent.
In peace time your thrashing.
But the war, like pack ice,
shifting borders, kept me.
And the tears rolled down the face of a horse.
And the Seagull pecked the eyes of the dead.
And the dove torn with the mail ring.
I was passed and handed over the city,
and they remained soul forever.
And not buried - buried, buried...
Like all have authorial.
And than departing, we were close,
the red poppies red and red.

And the cry of a wounded animal in the reeds,
helpless appeal: "do Not",
fence strangled garden
prosto hats on the ears
and fat, shuffle step, -
for all must pay.
And you thought cost,
live rough and for the parade.
And in the sky and in the kitchen goose.
Well, appropriate and not be afraid:
for all must pay.
By all earthly accounts pay
put all the sky to the head,
for lying bloodless way,
to the river of life go,
pay up scarlet blood.
But there, there is also a hell,
and the court Supreme, and the reward
and justice gates.
And the inscription on the gates of hell:
"All must pay".

The world forgets those
unlucky.
And if you missed a duel
forgot your cutlass in a strange bed,
fell from his horse
or broke the paddle -
there is no salvation.
You will forget the world.
Without breath,
regret
and crying.
Your luck has denied the idol.
That's the law.
All hail the luck!

If I were rich,
I'd bought three dresses,
three coats, three pairs of shoes
and a basket of tomatoes.
In the rain Oh, let it not getting wet,
in the snow it is not getting cold,
in day of a spring let go
in a light dress fun.
If I were rich,
I bought her a cranberry juice,
filled up to the sill
purple lilacs.
Let her cool lips,
let it raise eyebrows
and buried in damp bunches,
let him find the seven sevens.

I'm old-fashioned, as the jackboot
on the deck of the submarine.
Like bark, which will not return
from filibustering to the new port.
As he rejected the law,
that still has no power.
And like a hermit, that numbs
the latter-day icons.

You want I was like the fir tree, green,
Always green both in winter and in autumn.
You wish I was flexible as a willow,
So I could without a break to bend.
But I other tree.
If a plane rip off from the trunk of the skin
To cut it dry, and then painted,
It can climb the mast of the ship ocean,
Can be born red violin, a spear, a red or white deck.
And I don't want to have me skinned.
I don't want to be dyed, dried, bleached.
No, I don't want to.
Not because I'm better than other trees.
No, I didn't say that.
I just another tree.
They say that if the trees lie in the ground,
Then they turn into coal, bituminous coal,
They are long burning without burning, and it gives heat.
And I want to reach into the sky.
Not because I'm better than other trees, no.
And I just another tree.
I'm such a tree.