Lightning flashes of war.

Russia did not begin with a sword!

Russia did not begin with a sword,

It began with a scythe and a plow.

Not because the blood is not hot,

But because the Russian shoulder

Never in my life has anger touched...

And the battles rang with arrows

They only interrupted her constant work.

No wonder the horse of the mighty Ilya

The saddle was the master of the arable land.

In hands cheerful only from labor,

Out of good nature, sometimes not immediately

Retribution was rising. It's true.

But there was never a thirst for blood.

And if the hordes prevailed,

Forgive me, Russia, for the troubles of my sons.

Whenever there were no strife between the princes,

How could the hordes be punched in the face!

But only meanness rejoiced in vain.

Jokes with a hero are short-lived:

Yes, you can deceive a hero,

But to win - now that’s a piece of cake!

It would be just as funny

Like, say, fighting the sun and the moon.

Lake Peipus is the guarantee for this,

Nepryadva and Borodino rivers.

And if the darkness of the Teutons or Batu

We found the end in my homeland,

That is today's proud Russia

A hundred times more beautiful and stronger!

And in a fight with the fiercest war

She even managed to overcome hell.

The guarantee of this is the hero cities

In the fireworks on a festive night!

And my country is forever so strong,

That she never humiliated anyone.

After all, kindness is stronger than war,

How selflessness is more effective than a sting.

The dawn rises, bright and hot.

And it will be so forever and indestructibly.

Russia did not begin with a sword,

And that’s why she’s invincible!

Eduard Asadov.

Remember!

Victory Day. And in the fireworks

Like thunder: - Remember forever,

That in battles every minute,

Yes, literally every minute

Ten people died!

How to understand and how to comprehend this:

Ten strong, vigorous, young,

Full of faith, joy and light

And alive, desperately alive!

Everyone has a house or hut somewhere,

Somewhere there is a garden, a river, familiar laughter,

Mother, wife... And if unmarried,

That girl is the best of all.

On eight fronts of my fatherland

Swept away by the whirlpool of war

Every minute ten lives

That means every hour is already six hundred!..

And so four bitter years,

Day after day - incredible score!

For our honor and freedom

He managed everything and defeated the people.

Peace came like rain, like miracles,

The bright blue soul was scorched...

The clouds lifting their sails,

My Earth is sailing like a ship.

And now I want to contact

To everyone who is young and hot,

Whoever you are: a pilot or a doctor.

Teacher, student or driller...

Yes, it's great to think about fate

Very bright, honest and beautiful.

But are we always to ourselves?

Truly strict and fair?

After all, circling between plans and ideas,

To be honest, we often

We're simply wasting our time

For dozens of little things.

On rags, on empty books,

To discord, where no one is right,

For dancing, drinking, passions,

Lord, you never know!

And it would be nice for each of us

But there is probably a soul in everyone,

Suddenly remember something very important,

The most necessary, perhaps now.

And, sweeping away everything small and empty,

Having thrown off boredom, callousness or laziness,

Suddenly remember at what cost

Our every peaceful day was bought!

And, kneading fate coolly,

To love, fight and dream,

How was the minute paid?

Every minute

Dare we forget this?!

And, walking behind the high news,

Remember that every hour

Forever looking with faith and love

Following you are those who lived in your name!

Letter from the front

Mother! I am writing these lines to you,
I send you my filial greetings,
I remember you, so dear,
So good - there are no words!

You read the letter, and you see a boy,
A little lazy and always on time
Running in the morning with a briefcase under his arm,
Whistling carefree, to the first lesson.

You were sad, if I was a physicist, it happened
The diary was “decorated” with a harsh deuce,
I was proud when I was under the arches of the hall
I eagerly read my poems to the children.

We were careless, we were stupid,
We didn't really value everything we had,
But they understood, maybe only here, during the war:
Friends, books, Moscow disputes -
Everything is a fairy tale, everything is in a haze, like snowy mountains...
So be it, we’ll come back and appreciate it doubly!

Now there's a break. Gathering at the edge of the forest,
The guns froze like a herd of elephants,
And somewhere peacefully in the thick of the forests,
Like when I was a child, I heard the voice of the cuckoo...

For life, for you, for your native land
I'm walking towards the leaden wind.
And even if there are kilometers between us now -
You are here, you are with me, my dear!

In a cold night, under an unkind sky,
Bow down and sing a quiet song to me
And together with me to distant victories
You walk the soldier's road invisibly.

And no matter what the war threatens me on the way,
You know, I won’t give up as long as I’m breathing!
I know you blessed me
And in the morning, without flinching, I go into battle!

Eduard Asadov

« The thirteenth day of the war is roaring"

The thirteenth day of the war is roaring.
There is no respite either at night or during the day.
Explosions rise, rockets blind,
And there is not a second for silence.

It’s scary to imagine how the guys fight!
Rushing into the twentieth, thirtieth battle
For every hut, path, arable land,
For every hillock that is painfully different...

And there is no longer a front or a rear,
You can't cool hot trunks!
Trenches - graves... and again graves...
Exhausted to pieces, at the end of their strength,
And yet courage cannot be broken.

We sang about battles more than once in advance,
The words were heard in the Kremlin itself
That if war comes tomorrow,
Then all our power will stand like a monolith
And he will march menacingly through foreign land.

But how will everything really happen?
About this - no one and nowhere. Silence!
But can the boys doubt that?
They can only fight fearlessly,
Fighting for every piece of native land!

And faith rings both in the soul and in the body,
That the main forces are already coming!
And tomorrow, well, maybe in a week
All the fascist scum will be swept away.

The thirteenth day of war rumbles
And, clanging, it rushes further and further...
And that's what makes her most scary,
That it’s not someone else’s land that is rushing, but ours.

Neither the deaths nor the number of attacks can be counted,
Fatigue weighed down my legs...
And, it seems, take at least one more step,
And you'll drop dead by the road...

The platoon commander wiped his forehead with his cap:
- Share crackers! Don't drift, people!
A week, no more will pass,
And the main force will arrive here.

A haze fell on the forest like soot...
Well, where is the victory and the hour of reckoning?!
Every bush and trunk
Exhausted soldiers fell asleep...

Eh, if only the fearless fighters of the country knew,
To the deathly tired soldiers of the platoon,
Why wait for no help, no silence?
No need. And what about the end of the war
Not days, but four huge years.

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Eduard Asadov.

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier!

Oh, how many there are from the Volga to the Carpathians!

In the smoke of battles dug once

Soldiers with sapper shovels.

Green bitter mound by the road,

In which they are forever buried

Dreams, hopes, thoughts and worries

An unknown defender of the country.

Who has been in battles and knows the front line,

Who lost a comrade in the war,

He fully knew pain and rage,

When he was digging his last “trench.”

After the march - a march, after the battle - a new battle!

When were the obelisks built?!

Board and pencil stubs,

After all, that’s all that was at hand!

The last "service record" of a soldier:

"Ivan Fomin" and nothing more.

And just below are two short dates

His birth and death.

But two weeks of torrential rains,

And only dark gray remains

A piece of wet, swollen plywood,

And no last name on it.

Guys are fighting hundreds of miles away.

And here, twenty steps from the river,

Green mound in wildflowers -

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier...

But the Motherland does not forget the fallen!

How a mother never forgets

Neither fallen nor missing,

The one who is always alive for his mother!

Yes, there is no such thing as oblivion for courage.

That's why he died in battle

The elders call out at verification

Like a warrior standing in line!

And therefore, as a sign of heartfelt memory

All over the country from the Volga to the Carpathians

In living flowers they burn day and night

Rays of the native five-pointed star.

The rays fly solemnly and sacredly,

To meet in a silent grip,

Over the ashes of the Unknown Soldier,

What sleeps in the ground in front of the gray Kremlin!

And from the rays, crimson like a banner,

On a spring day the fanfare rings,

As a symbol of glory, a flame kindled -

Holy flame of eternal fire!

Eduard Asadov

MARGIN OF SAFETY

I still don't quite understand
How am I, thin and small,
Through the fires to the victorious May
I arrived in my kirzachs.

And where did so much strength come from?
Even in the weakest of us?..
What to guess!--Russia had and still has
Eternal strength is an eternal supply.

Yulia Drunina

I've seen hand-to-hand combat so many times,
Once in reality. And a thousand - in a dream.
Who says that war is not scary?
He knows nothing about the war.

Yulia Drunina

I don’t know where I learned tenderness...

Don't ask me about this.

Soldiers' graves are growing in the steppe,

My youth is walking in an overcoat.

In my eyes - charred pipes.

Fires are burning in Rus'.

And again unkissed lips

The wounded boy took a bite.

No, you and I didn’t learn from the report

Great retreat to suffer.

Self-propelled guns rushed into the fire again,

I jumped onto the armor as I walked.

And in the evening over the mass grave

She stood with her head bowed...

I don’t know where I learned tenderness, -

Perhaps on the front road...

Yulia Drunina

Memory…
People are alive as long as they are remembered. Remember your loved ones! Remember those thanks to whom we have the opportunity to express our thoughts and simply live...
Happy memory to those who died during the Great Patriotic War!
And this..., together with the civilian population, is more than forty million people...
And God bless you, our dear veterans!
Thank you for surviving the horror of war and being able to smile today.
Forgive us that, drowning in everyday worries, we pay you less attention than you deserve.

Unfortunately, we understand this when we lose...
Yulia Drunina is also not among us. But her memory is alive. Her poems are alive.
Let's carry this memory together - the memory of generations...

Happy Great Victory Day, dear veterans!!!
Happy Holidays to all of us!

June, 1945. In our abandoned village of Arkhipovka there is no house where a funeral would not come. During the entire war, only two returned: Marya’s husband Ivan on crutches and without a leg, and Froskin’s son Peter, shell-shocked, as we said, all over his head.
Every day we, rural children, ran out to look at the highway to see if our fathers were returning from the war. So it was on this day...
Two figures appeared in the distance. One is larger, the second is smaller. With every step they take, a man in military uniform is clearly visible with a duffel bag on his left shoulder and a shiny leather suitcase on his right. Next to him, walking lightly, in the same uniform, is a fragile girl. With every step they take, the shine of the awards on their chests can be seen and their characteristic ringing can be heard...
The eldest of us, the overgrown Anton, recognizing one of the approaching ones as his neighbor Mikhail, rushed to run along the village street shouting:

Hooray!!! Anastasia's aunts, Uncle Misha has returned from the war!..

Literally a minute later, the good news spread throughout the entire village, and now young and old gathered near Anastasia’s yard. Anastasia herself stood in front, wiping tears of joy from her face. Clutching her five-year-old twins Anya and Romka, she peered with joy and pain into such a familiar face of her husband. So he came up, grabbed the children in his arms and headed towards the house. Happy Anastasia, picking up the suitcase left by her husband, trotted off to the house. Her husband's companion is behind her. The fellow villagers who remained behind the gate watched silently until they disappeared into the house.
Already in the room, Anastasia was fussily rushing from the stove to the table, trying to put her modest treat on it: a crust of bread, a bowl of barely warm borscht and a couple of raw eggs, which she was saving for the children. Having examined all this wealth, Mikhail took out a loaf of bread, two cans of stew, several lumps of sugar and a flask of alcohol from his duffel bag. Pouring its contents into mugs, he said:

For returning...

He tipped the contents of the mug inside without taking a bite and lit a cigarette. His companion habitually emptied the contents of her mug and tried to light a cigarette. But Mikhail, taking the cigarette from her hands, crumpled it and said:

You can't, Lena!..

Then, as if having come to his senses, he said, turning to his wife:

Meet Anastasia! This is my fighting friend Lena. She pulled me out of the battle wounded. Then I went to the medical battalion. To be honest, thanks to her, I am alive...

And we are expecting a child...

It was as if something had snapped inside Anastasia... She silently stood up and went out to the other half of the house. In the corner of the room, little Anya and Romka fearfully stared at their folder... After a while she returned. Without raising her eyes to Mikhail and Lena, she said:

I, there, in the other half, made a bed for you. Relax...

And taking the children, she hid with them behind the screen that separated the table from the bed.
After sitting a little longer, Mikhail, picking up his suitcase and duffel bag, headed with Elena to another part of the house. From the journey they had endured and fatigue, their sleep was deep. So deep that in the morning they didn’t even hear the half-asleep children’s cry and the creaking of doors...
And only Froskin’s shell-shocked son Peter, with an indifferent and detached gaze, watched the woman wandering along the morning rural street with a bundle of simple belongings behind her back and two children...
When the sun rose quite high, Mikhail woke up. Carefully covering Elena, who was happily smiling at her thoughts in her sleep, he, putting on riding breeches and boots, stretching, went out into the yard. I approached the well. He pulled out a bucket of cold water and began pouring it down to his waist. Quietly snorting and enjoying the freshness. He didn’t even notice that his fellow villagers were trying to silently, without raising their eyes or saying hello, sneak near his house.
After smoking and drying slightly in the sun, he headed into the house. And only then, in his unusual silence, did he realize that something was wrong. Pulling back the curtain, I discovered a clean, empty bed...
The former soldier understood everything... And he was grateful to Anastasia’s unnecessary generosity. After all, he only came to the village for a day. I wanted to see the kids. Get a divorce. And in the regional center, work was already waiting for him and Lena. Former front-line soldiers were worth their weight in gold. He was offered the position of chairman of the general store, she was offered a position as a paramedic in the district hospital...
I lit another cigarette. He took out a captured, battery-powered receiver, tuned it to the desired wavelength and heard a woman’s voice with feeling and harmony singing a song to the words of Bulat Okudzhava:

Oh, war, what have you done, vile one:
our yards have become quiet,
our boys raised their heads,
they have matured for the time being,
barely loomed on the threshold
and went after the soldier soldier...

Goodbye boys! boys,

No, don't hide, be tall
spare neither bullets nor grenades
and you don’t spare yourself... And yet
try to go back.

Oh, war, what have you done, vile one?
Instead of weddings - separation and smoke!
Our girls' dresses are white
They gave it to their sisters.
Boots... Well, where can you get away from them?
Yes, green wings...

Don't give a damn about the gossipers, girls!
We'll settle the score with them later.
Let them chatter that you have nothing to believe in,
Why are you going to war at random...

Goodbye girls! Girls,
Try to go back!

Oh, war, what have you done, vile one:
our yards have become quiet,
our boys raised their heads,
they have matured for the time being,
barely loomed on the threshold
and went after the soldier soldier...

Goodbye boys! boys,

No, don't hide, be tall
spare neither bullets nor grenades
and you don’t spare yourself... And yet
try to go back.

Oh, war, what have you done, vile one?
Instead of weddings - separation and smoke!
Our girls' dresses are white
They gave it to their sisters.
Boots... Well, where can you get away from them?
Yes, green wings...

Don't give a damn about the gossipers, girls!
We'll settle the score with them later.
Let them chatter that you have nothing to believe in,
Why are you going to war at random...

Goodbye girls! Girls,
Try to go back!

Translation of the lyrics of the song Bulat Okudzhava - Oh, War, What Have You Done, Vile

Ah, war, what have you done, vile:
steel quiet our yards,
our boys head raised,
they have grown up,
on the threshold of barely polychili
and went for a soldier soldier...

Good-bye, boys! Boys
try to go back.

No, you don't hide, be high,
do not spare neither bullets nor grenades
and myself do not spare you, but... still
try to go back.

Ah, war that you, vile, made:
Instead of wedding, separation and smoke!
Our girls dresses white
Gave away their sisters.
Boots... where can they go?
Yes green wings shoulder straps...

You spit on the gossip, girls!
We"ll settle things with them later.
Let talk that you don"t believe in that,
Going to war at random...

Goodbye girls! Girls
Try to go back!

« IN SUPPORT OF VIKTOR PANOV'S PROJECT FOR VICTORY DAY: https://www.site/work/1306690/
Oh, war, what have you done, you vile one?” (B. Okudzhava)

War... This is a black word. She crosses out the plans: “Since there is war, forget about everything and have no right to blame. I was getting ready for a long journey, and the order was given: “Leave me alone!”
And they left. School graduates went to the front, not to student audiences. The brides “gave white dresses to their sisters.” Students and teachers formed one formation - a soldier's formation. Separated families are still looking for each other. The children grew up without parents. Men's work fell on women's shoulders: “I chopped, transported, dug - can you really list everything? And in letters to the front she assured me that you were living a great life.” And the war machine did its dirty work; men died in its fire, leaving widows and orphans, young men died, leaving girls without future husbands, and the nation without born children. That's what she did, the vile one. And that wasn't that long ago. Veterans of World War II still live. Those who did not fight live, but remember the war. The children of that terrible war became grandparents.
My grandmother Lyuba lives with us, who saw her father in June 1941, when she was only four years old. She doesn’t remember his face, she knows it from photographs. He remembers only individual episodes. How she ran out into the long communal corridor and rushed towards him when he returned home. How my father once brought the rarest fruits for those times - two oranges - and said: “This is for you and mom. I ate mine on the way.” Holy lie!
My great-grandfather Sergei was a career officer. He was 28 years old, and great-grandmother Shura was 24 years old when the war began. Grandmother Lyuba was their only child. So she was left without sisters and brothers. And without a father. My great-grandfather went through almost the entire war. Almost, since he died in April 1945. Didn't live to see victory for 23 days. My mother, his granddaughter, is already older than him today. She never knew how wonderful it was to have a grandfather. There was no one she could even call grandfather. “What did you do, you vile one?”
My grandmother once told me: “You know, Ira, I often think: what would our family be like if there had not been that terrible war? I would definitely have brothers and sisters. Those. and you would have more relatives. And a large family, if it is also friendly, is a great happiness. You see how long it takes for the death of people to respond. Everything can be built again, but not returned...” The grandmother fell silent without finishing. And I realized that almost half a century had passed, and the wound was not healing.
On May 9, Victory Day, my grandparents always have guests. They remember those who did not return from that war, remember their wartime childhood, and sing songs of those years. And they cry during the television Minute of Silence. Elderly people are sitting at the table, almost all of them are pre-war children. They were preserved, raised by their mothers, and their parents saved us all, the whole world.
As I finish, I’ll tell you this story. Once upon a time, grandmother Lyuba either heard or read “The Pilot’s Song” by V. Vysotsky. She said, "It's about my father." At first I tried to object to her that no, it couldn’t be. He died at the end of the war, when there could no longer be such a “pre-battle schedule”:
There are eight of them - there are two of us,
- pre-fight schedule
Not ours, but we will play!
Seryozha, hold on!
We have no luck with you,
But the trump cards must be leveled!
I assured that the coincidence of my great-grandfather’s name and military profession was not a reason to..., then I remembered my grandmother’s story about oranges and thought: why am I doing this? Holy lies have a right to exist. My beloved grandmother loves Vysotsky’s songs about the war so much. Let this song be a song about her father, my great-grandfather. I think the poet would not condemn us.

« Oh, war, what have you done?

Bulat Shalvovich OKUDZHAVA
Oh, war, what have you done, vile one:
our yards have become quiet,
our boys raised their heads,
they have matured for the time being,
barely loomed on the threshold
and went after the soldier soldier...
Goodbye boys! boys,

No, don't hide, be tall
spare neither bullets nor grenades
and you don’t spare yourself... And yet
try to go back.
Oh, war, what have you done, vile one?
Instead of weddings - separation and smoke!
Our girls' dresses are white
They gave it to their sisters.
Boots... Well, where can you get away from them?
Yes, green wings...
Don't give a damn about the gossipers, girls!
We'll settle the score with them later.
Let them chatter that you have nothing to believe in,
Why are you going to war at random...
Goodbye girls! Girls,
Try to go back!

"AH, WAR, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU VILE"
Bulat Shalvovich Okudzhava (1924-1997)

Translation from Russian into Ukrainian: Nikolay Sysoilov
Translation from Russian into Bulgarian: Krasimir Georgiev

Bulat Okudzhava
============================ AH, WAR, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU VILE

Oh, war, what have you done, vile one:
================================= Our courtyards have become quiet,
================================= Our boys raised their heads -
=================================== They have matured for the time being,

They barely loomed on the threshold
============================================ And they left, following the soldier - the soldier...
=================================== Goodbye, boys! boys,

No, don't hide, be tall
=================================== Don't spare any bullets or grenades
=================================== And don’t spare yourself, and yet
================================= Try to go back.

Oh, war, what have you done, vile one?
================================= Instead of weddings - separation and smoke,
================================= Our girls' dresses are white
================================== Gave it to their sisters.

Boots - well, where can you get away from them?
================================= Yes, green wings...
================================= Don't give a damn about the gossipers, girls.
================================= We'll settle the score with them later.

Let them chatter that you have nothing to believe in,
================================= That you are going to war at random...
=================================== Goodbye, girls! Girls,
================================= Try to go back.

==============================================
=====================================================

long line

Oh, war, what has happened, for you:
Our courtyards became quiet.
Our boys, just kids yesterday,
grown up, soak it in until it's time.

Little girls stood on the fence - and...
everyone went, the soldier followed the soldier...
Goodbye, boys! Boys,

And don’t be afraid of pathetic wrath,
do not spare bullets or grenades -
And you won’t spare yourself, and yet
try to go back.

Oh, war, what has happened to you:
Replacement of weddings – and separations, and death.
Our girls' scarves are tailored
They gave it to their sisters.

Vzuli choboti – the brush is thin!
Don't hold the blame in your heart,
Don’t spit on the tiles, little girl, -
We are cheering up after the war.

Stop gossiping: “about changes and turns”,
Why is the war leading you at random...
Goodbye, girls! Girls,
try to go back.

***
Nikolay Sysoilov,
04.05.15

==============

WITH STRIKES
===========================================
AH, VOYNA SCHO ZH NAKOILA, PIDLA TI
=================================================

***
(translation from Russian into Ukrainian: Nikolay Sysoilov)
long line

Oh, war, what was it like for you:
there are hundreds of chemicals in our yards.
On "our cotton" birds, - just yesterday, -
Podoro "slіli soak until the time."

For a period of time the muscles stood – and...
everyone went", for the soldier "tom - soldier" t...
Bye bye, bye, bye! Chloe bees,

And don’t fight and rot,
I don’t feel sorry for “no bullets, no grenades” –
You don’t have any mercy on yourself, but still”
try to come back d.

Oh, war, what did you do for:
For the “revenge of weddings – and separations”, and dim.
At the beginning of the process, the pulley will quickly
Give your sisters a gift.

Who cares - even the brush is thin!
Don’t blame it in your heart,
Spit on the tiles, little girl, -
Rozrahu "is welcome" after the war.

Hai court "chat: "about wchi"nki and vi"tivki"
what is the war leading you...
Bye bye, bye! Dі"chinki,
try to come back d.

***
Nikolay Sysoilov,
04.05.15

My collage is based on photos from the Internet

Ah, war, ti kakvo si directed
(translation from Russian into Bulgarian: Krasimir Georgiev)

silent in the yard no noise has many faces,
play there momcheta ostavikha
and got naked in just a moment,

Those for little in Prague se Marnaha
and the warrior trace the warrior behold...
Hey momcheta, see you guys! boys,
live and come back!

Don't be afraid, you'll get better,
don’t begrudge grenades for the bastard,
you don’t spare yourself, that’s for sure
live and come back!

Ah, war, ti kakvo si directed:
instead of a match, divide the ashes.
Beli rokli devoykite dadoha
on my sister - the gift will meet fear.

Viy with botushi sche tryabva yes tichate!
There was a green wing under the carriage...
Spit on the klyukarite, momicheta,
Let's clear away the ignorant evil.

Neka drankat for five vi, darlings,
why war is a parade for you...
Hey girls, see you guys! Girls,
live and come back!

My collage is based on photos from the Internet

Reviews

History, alas, cannot be fooled!
War cannot be hidden, these wounds are serious...
But our veterans do not age..!
It’s a pity for the millions, they won’t be returned!

(I am, of course, about people.., first of all!,
although the material damage is colossal!)
Thank you, Nikolay, for your contribution and emotions!
Everything is correct!