Tvardovo biography pictures

A fighter sits on the porch. On the starling, it marches: - What do you want, and the starling is the right bird. The day-day, as we stand here, in the kindergarten with a mountain, is engaged in his business. The house is fixed, the former without looking. Like, war is by war, but you have to breed! The wasteland is sullen and waterless, where the ruins of the ruins are angry in the eyes with cold brick dust and ash; Where in the former center Il on the suburbs alone is the song in the night: it thunders, mutters, scraping the tin -tin tin on the war.

And on the avenue Il Sereldka, which span between the ruins, crooked, manual refugees of the double -blade thunder along the ancient bridge. Smoke made of the basement of the basement, the path to the well in the damn moat ... only two years. Life from the beginning - from fire, from water, from an armful of firewood. II some German in this house dried socks over the stove, arranging an iron pipe in the broom, arranging masterfully.

He equipped with a comfortable life-time life as soon as he could: where is the nail, where is the box, where to serve as a tin for a certain time. And in this ruined house, having decided on the wait, he lived in warmth, and slept shattered, and washed with summer water ... Let him not ruin my city, the other that he ran away, - I feel sorry for the air, which he breathed here for a month.

I feel sorry for warmth, corner and shelter, daylight to be sorry in the house, everything that maybe Il was joyful for him. Everyone is sorry for the paths and sods where he passed on the ground, sunset, which with him in the window played the same on the glass. I feel sorry for the smell of a forest drove, stolen in the snow, all that I recall again, without remembering the German, I can’t.

All that the heart from childhood is sacred, that the heart dreamed light and that from now on, without a return, loss of heart lay down. It was somehow ineptly childishly a small body. Moroz pressed the overcoat to the ice, the hat flew away a long time, the boy did not lie, but still fled, but the ice was holding on the floor ... In the middle of the big war, I won’t do the mind - I feel sorry for that fate of the distant, as if I were lying, as if I were lying, a small, small, small, small, forgotten, forgotten, forgotten.

Lying. Everything is now as a consumption ... And I just can’t forgive myself: I would have recognized the boy from thousands of people, but what is the name, I forgot to ask him. Not one entered - with a platoon, not on a straight line - under fire, gets home to the gardens ... Who would once think that a fighter will get a porch to crawl to his bore? And he dreamed, maybe he could come up to others, to knock on the window of the expected guest, dear.

On the porch, the volume with a grin hide, freeze. Here the wife in a hurry from a hurry cannot unlock the door. He knows, he knows, he knows who is waiting for a jamb ... “What are you, dear, dear, run out barefoot? .. And to your lips, dry lips, warm lips. The children will rush, hug ... The youngest has grown great ... No, not so for you, dear, I had a chance to come. All hopes turned differently, all things.

He left the house for war, and the war came to the house. Death whistles above the heads, the snow is wiped with shells. And the wife in a cold pit sits somewhere with children. And your native hut, where you lived for more than a year, holds a platoon under fire from machine guns in the furrows. This is my guilty, hut is still mine. And therefore, guys, ”he says,“ I give ...

And the owner is strict, harsh in a friendly manner, the firewood crawls along the wattle fence and a cage of firewood. And they are lying, the guys are watching: here he was bumping the snow, he got up. There is a grenade in the window, and the gap is thundered ... And slowly, busily stood the owner, wiped the sweat ... bluish smoke in the window broken, and the path is free forward.

He pulled the belt more tightly, shook off over the wall, looked out the window outside - and to his: - Come on after me ... And when they took the village, to the commander as soon as possible: - So and so. Now is it possible to see a wife, children? .. Lieutenant, his peer, drinks water from a pot. And from the winter there was protection earth. Which is deeper, it’s warm. Two or three steps for order, bend lower every time.

The waist of the tent is hung in the ground in the ground. And there, below, under the rolling, under the ceiling of rounds, there, as you crawl, - a native hut, masts of smoke and smell of a dash. There is an earthly paradise. And in fact, winter is not terrible. And on the spread overcoat, the foreman counts the sugar. And, moving in the lips of a cigarette butt, looking sleepily at the fire, a fighter, a blond boyfriend, quietly touches the accordion.

And all those who came to bask are sitting with a accommodating circle, squatting, as in childhood, as in a field somewhere, in the night ... Anyone knew him in the hills. The old people were called in the gathering, the children simply, with a crowd, are a little envied, surrounded. And although the earth is tired, still good, warmth: the linen raised otava raised from the edges.

But the rivers are already darkening, the smoke of the fire pulls up. Mushrooms, nuts moved away. You look, in the morning the cattle did not come out of the yard. The field is empty. White matinee granist. And fresh, frosty, deliciously creaked a cabbage leaf. And behind the scream of Zhuralin, completing the bread year, cars go for repairs, breaking the ice in the ruts. Around the straw in a mess, a bonfire dry from the ceiling, a braid, fallen on the beds, and a redhead trace of a truck.

Rye rages deafly, noisy - and no one around. And only with a rake of the old woman in his former courtyard.The haze of lazy dust runs. In the morning, the old woman is on his feet, he is looking for everything, - maybe they forgot in the old place in a hurry. And although there is not a bipod around, from one stove - no, no, it will play the tree in warmed, cucched over for many years.

Suddenly he will play with housing: Seny - canopy, cage - crater ... And something is really forgotten here, and it’s a pity, although there is nothing to regret. And the sun is approaching dinner, the old woman looks, waiting for people - they will come here for the last time - live, live and youth! Where the court is from now on, where people, where it is different to become all corners, in other windows the sun will be reduced, in others at noon to stand.

Where both the street and the river are, where the white light is closer to the house, there will no longer be smoke a stove, like this from the dilapidated years. In rye - wonderful and unusual, throwing a shadow on the courtyard, as if a brick monument, she stands. The last day. Kirka and scrap will end her, and the plow will pass the trailer. And only thicker and darker here the shoots will run out in the spring.

And I do not know how to play harmonies. Enviously, insulting, gloomy to me. He dances with her - especially somehow: the hand on the weight and eyes are half asleep. And in this matter, indeed, a tractor, - here I have nothing to try. Where should I put my arms and legs, to whom to tell about my resentment? I’ll go, I’ll stand, I’ll smoke, lonely, let me go again, and stand again.

I would be good for nothing skillful, good I would be good. But my glory reached Moscow. And everywhere the work is known mine. Let me not stand in a circle. And he is in a circle - no one is even. But let us go to the field with you - you would soon ask me to drink. You press her hand. She looks somewhere. She is looking for me with her eyes. And here it is. And he looks guilty, and affectionately, and slyly, moreover.

You play good waltzes again, everyone praises, and I praise you too. I watch how cunning fingers work, and even I appreciate and love you. For the fact that all good people are around, for the fact that I am not so simple. For the fact that she doesn’t love you seriously, but loves me. And you only ... the Earth, who once gave birth to heroes in a remote village, the Earth, which is rich in everything that happens on earth; ...

Further, the link below the bride, we played together, trampled the dust at Zavvalin, and everything happened to my bride, they used to call it. We grew up with you, and someone grew up in a completely different edge and at six months earned all your love at once. He flies, he is far away, I am sitting with you here. And about him, about an ambulance you are talking about the whole evening.

And, your hands, I see so much tenderness of my friend, so much pride in my wife. All of you live and breathe, everything is true, clean, like a mother. You can’t do anything here, and there is nothing to write.