youtube/watch?v=LzTkAvn-gMA Ribbon of Saint George A spring forest is flying by behind the window I am riding a Leningrad suburban train A little girl is sitting across from me She has Ribbon of Saint George in her braid Today one can wear this ribbon On ones handbag, or in the form of a brooch, But without the ribbons I still remember well How my grandma never threw away the breadcrumbs We hear a lot of superfluous words on Victory Day, But this syrupy unctuousness is not very much believed By those who at the age of ten had to sustain Themselves mainly on carpenters glue The passage of time multiplies everything by zero And replaces one generation by another, so that... The extenuated pain of the war shows up Only as a spring exacerbation. Many circle around this pain Like crows and seagulls. As if they want to snatch their very own piece Of the concrete heroic blockade I am riding the train and looking at it all: Through the window, at the little girl with her beautiful eyes, But behind the window those soldiers lie And sprout as new forests. I am passing through the ominous places, Where a person is the main treasure beneath the soil, Where soldiers lie since the war With the density of three per square meter. Steps and voices are heard there... And odd lights are seen on the swamps. Shadows sing to you during the night As if they ask and want something: Dig me out pal. Im Alexandr Vershinin, The fifth mortar regiment. Im from Ryazan. Youve seen a lot about soldiers in the movies Now you will listen to my story; bet itll be more interesting. So they start to tell their tales In the language of moans and unfinished thoughts. You want to run away, but again they glimmer Just ahead between the pine trees Hurry to dig me out, I beg you again. Im Sregey Morshannokov, born near Pskov. Pass my address to my home village: Its the 18th grid sector, the black shell hole. Then everything will roar and fly somewhere at dawn, And then push forward on the machine gun, with bayonets and cursing; And trees are all uprooted down: roots growing upwards... At this glorious battle place of crime It is a miraculous place. Forests are like in fairy tales: Step on a bump, look at it, this is a helmet. Dig a little deeper and you find a pot and a spoon. But above all of this cloudberries just grow. The month of May is in its full bloom and beauty. The train is approaching the Apraksin Station. А gaggle of geese is in the sky. Summer will soon come. The little girl is fixing the ribbon in her braid. [translation: opazdamshi (Maxim). Writer/composer: Igor Rasteryaev Video: Alexey Lyakhov]
Posted on: Tue, 13 May 2014 07:02:22 +0000
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