village [Theme] Page 4

Field Blizzard's landmarks, trails,
In the new year wilderness dense
Of the utility escaped of the box
Autumn long utterly exhausted.
In a sleepy village, forest, zabugornoy,
Where the partridges are hiding in sheds.
From won universal cold
Silently huddled on the stove hot.

World - just English village!
Our world is an English village!

In the deserted garden among the lilacs
Dropping petals transparent snow
And next - a house with a porch in three steps
As the memory of the last guardian.

I remember grandpa's principles,
What on earth in word and work
We live this...
Let the knowledge of a simple,
But it kept Russian house.

You know: in every Russian village there is a moron... What is a Russian village, if there is no fool? In this village look like some kind of Britain in which so far no Constitution...

And you know who ever in your life caught a ruff or seen in fall migratory thrushes, as they are in the clear, cool days worn flocks over the village, he is not a resident of the city, and until his death will SIP at will.

Here it is, the departed village.
And over her tired moon.
Skinny, armless trees,
Past them the road like a string.
So went the untimely nature!
At the gate the mist was asleep,
Exactly hydrogen peroxide
City tow throat poked.

... us in the village, nor to grow rich will not.

- I taught every day. Every day I say the same thing. And the cherry orchard and the land must pay rent under a house, do it now, hurry - auction on the nose! Understand! Once we decide to testify, so the money you give as much as necessary, and then you are saved.
- Cottages and gardeners - is so vulgar, sorry.

Still in the village was only the Lord and men, and now there are even gardeners. All cities, even small ones, is now surrounded by villas. And we can say, cottager in twenty years grew to the strangeness.

Now I am always in the evenings
Proclaims the king of sunset
And the sun good-bye crimson
It paints my simple outfit.
Delighted to roam around the neighborhood.
Circle swirls the dust up to the clouds.
From the wilderness drive the cattle home. Ring
Out of tune bells of cows.
Enthusiastically peering into the distance.
Enthusiastically listened to the ringing.
Everywhere, everywhere, as far as the eye can see,
Only steppe and steppe and blue sky.

... And little by little started back
To pull: the village, in a dark garden,
Where lime is so vast, so shady
And lilies of the valley so the virgin fragrant,
Round willow above the water
From the dam leaned in succession,
Where the oak grows fat over fat field
Where the smell of konopel Yes nettles...
There, there, in meadows,
Where velvet is blackened earth,
Where rye is, wherever you throw your eyes,
Flowing softly soft waves
And falls heavy, yellow beam
Because of the clear, white, round clouds.
There's good; there only Russian at home;
And desert him, as the birthplace of the familiar;
Like the sea, he walks on it -
He lives and breathes, moves freely;
There is myself - myself blithely sings;
Goes... where? does not know! infinitely
Run, run incoherent words...
Sat up alone on the trail of grass...
Him another you are sulite share -
He does not want another sensible will...

In a city apartment Uyut is not easy to create - one for that puts in all the rooms porcelain figurines of pioneers, dancers, and writers, bought at a flea market; the other in artistic disorder scatters intelligent books on the Desk, and even in each insert five tabs; the third in front of the oven in which rumanetsa a dozen chicken legs from the supermarket, puts the armchair, lights his pipe and makes a man lie at his feet on the synthetic rug room dog the size of a cat; the fourth... However, all of this city. In the village, to create a cosiness, enough to flood the stove or in the early spring to grow on the window sill cucumbers, covered with fine milk bristles.

In the village there is no new year, but only a continuation of the old. Village time, unlike the city, not the multicolored scraps from different places ponderance and associated nodules Christmas show on TV, and endless, disasterarea thread, which, like Christmas garland, hanging everything - the boots, drying by the stove, and the stove, sopping wet and icy baby gloves, and summer cotton sundresses, and a winter sheepskin coat, and snow-covered dog house and the dog along with her nonsense, and two magpies on the roof of the shed, and a stack of new mown hay, and the snow, and a house with a chimney, and the smoke from the chimney, and christenings, and birthdays, and funerals, and a hundred and fifty for no reason, and even cricket, which is now bursting in the pleasant warmth of the heated stove, and in summer rang grasshopper and next winter will again be a cricket.