Дом запылал, чтоб вновь воссиял
К полночи в небе закатный жар,
Пестик - труба, там где дом стоял,-
Только сожрал лепестки пожар.
Зато сохранилось вдали гумно,
Огня не достала лихая плоть -
Ветер решает порой умно,
Чтобы топоним не расколоть.
Гибель всему и маршрут открыт,
Пусть неизвестен момент второй
Чтобы послышался стук копыт,
Травы густые косить порой.
Птицы, летая, застали врасплох,
В пламени окон смерть свою,
Им не вспомнится переполох,
Плач по утраченному жилью.
Сирень пробивалась живой листвой
Но вяз погиб, опалён огнём
Качка огарок убогой рукой,
Забора столб с проводами на нём.
Печали как нет, им неведом страх
За гнёзда – радости нет границ,
Надо быть сведущим в местных делах,
Верить - не плачут феи птиц.
Дом запылал
© Copyright: Вячеслав Толстов, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117050201375
Свидетельство о публикации №117050201375
Рецензии
– The Need of Being Versed in Country Things
The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place's name.
No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.
The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.
Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm:
And the fence post carried a strand of wire.
For them there was really nothing sad.
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept, ,
One had to be versed in country things
Not to believe the phoebes wept.
*
Robert Lee Frost
Вячеслав Толстов 02.05.2017 06:00 • Заявить о нарушении
The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place's name.
No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.
The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.
Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm:
And the fence post carried a strand of wire.
For them there was really nothing sad.
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept, ,
One had to be versed in country things
Not to believe the phoebes wept.
*
Robert Lee Frost
Вячеслав Толстов 02.05.2017 06:00 • Заявить о нарушении