my verse fell to the bottom of the dry sea, went to the front , forgetting to water it, a flower, my wife’s face died of grief, a roadblock, shooting, the alley east all night in donetsk, guns rumbled, concrete burned , fittings smoked in the ruins, a dead percussionist lay, cruel war architecture. houses of a destroyed block under a street lamp a forgotten corpse, and you could play a nocturne on a flute of mortar pipes of scorched villages, a sad smell the dreary howl of orphans and widows the sunset burns among smoking cities my grandfather did not

look for george and slava and my father died at stalingrad i survived 16 bloody warrior. now i lie under ukrainian hail. my call sign frying pan drank vodka before the attack so that the cities hissed like carp in a frying pan in the steppe at the site of a mine gap, where the bandage lay torn and grass grows bloody , silver mane, popularly, the name and the gap is grass. girl holschoby embroidered kisses as sweet as honey at dawn tanks appeared and pulled off a grenade launcher from his shoulder. leave the deceit of blind fortune-telling and

a group with hatchet-makers versions of 15 accurate hits of 15 bullet holes. women field two wrecked tanks i looked into the open hatches of the tankers charred remains crooked hands who are you, fair-haired ukrainian, whom did you love? in what village did you live who brought a gift for the holiday ? cursed be the hour when you killed? a bouquet of bright memories, not a single one can be defended, that smell of tank diesel fuel, that cold of tank armor. we guard the bridge at night, the father and we are his two sons, when

you knew how many green white blue iron flies in the sky, the importunate singing of the crimson lightning in the distance. i remember how at the feast of the assumption you came up in a lilac scarf. he raped her and continued to smoke among the decayed jackets and jackets. now you, bitch, will begin to speak. i extinguished a cigarette butt in her stomach. we were torn apart by bombs and rockets entered the village in a column of dusty steel, women met us without bouquets of their children. they put down tanks. bullets sang like nightingales poured in for the winter fell slavs killed. i hit point-blank at the embrasure

around the lead and began to dance. burnt and fixture hung baby carriage. the residential quarter was churned with hailstones , their defense was on the wane, killed the battalion commander would serve as an immunograde dead, mariupol.

bayonet-knives. the three of them drove him into the corner of an iron pond tirelessly christ in the world he mined donetsk coal, becoming a militia died from christ let you utter the last cry, but did not stop living, your beam will pass a deadly moment through the fiery crystal pencil drew an arrow on the map the arrow was stubborn and red. the troops went. so according to prayers in march. the russian spring has begun again. among the fields of wheat mines where he shot and blood, kharkov got up like a pink flamingo in the rays of dawn, broken, kharkov

this house was given, a dead old woman lay in her blue handkerchief. there were many wasp nests, nests of yellow-blue and purple-scarlet were hung. the columns marched from bryansk and rostov, the rocket men were looking for a target in a remote village with the crucifixion of christ , red drops flew to the floor. my bitter verse, my symbol of faith, with a pen from a war-torn, i write on the turret of an armored personnel carrier with its melted armor. there was an enemy in the village, and we got into a fight or fire from all the iron pipes. i remember how a three-legged dog

carried a stump in the teeth of his leg. where cities tormented faces? where, on the fields of past tanks after the village, is the cherry orchard smoking? there i put ammunition into it. he was a big-nosed odessan playing. in the odessa jazz, his keychain still hangs in the blown up kamaz real bombs and land mines were served on the tables in boilers, the boiled meat of centuries, the tangled bowl of the regiments, the timeless march, the sunset, russia drinks in its poisoned bowl. troops. fought stubbornly or terribly broken cities.

the piles of smoke behind the back were not the kremlin tower , their kiss grew and the blow. as good as the tanks were fresh, how deep under the kharkov trenches we buried the mortal remains of the once delightful europe on the flanks the militias fought us did not give up, coaldar. chechens moved in the center. i heard them, allah akbar, your mouth grew and you go into the fire, the brave highlander, the hero of the country and the son of the hero of chechnya

. tell me the magician , favorite of the regiments, my wise and strict curator, when married with the edge of gray clouds spotted alligator and the one with the claw again iron eyebrows. two old witches basking playfully russia spitting them up with blood. they fled, leaving the palaces of the country of their fathers , the russian creators fled from the horror of nevea. so the snakes crawl away from the fire. at night, from a heavenly nest , it is fabulously applicable, and a child’s blue

star hits and burns, donetsk street in that lane with tanks, i strove to plant a clip in it. he covered me with a miner's mat and answered. we continued to slaughter your red forelocks fire battalions and shot. fates are broken, the halls of my soul are torn apart. he was slain by wheat, runes darkened on the road and on his shoulders. his torn body was smoking, sooty grief from the east fiery was flying victory scarlet dawn. they stand, we advance through and through

smoke through blood and sweat, we are chimney-sweeps, we clean wars, carbon monoxide chimneys, two axes, two gloomy dresses, sibits, the executioner is silent, people, two women, two white shirts, basses, rose holy. night before the image of the radiant nun prayed to the leader. where can i find the words unspeakable to sing psalm lord have mercy on us nuns, like a black mourning woman, they fly to the golden iconostasis. a

caustic draft of betrayal was whispering in front of the pile, there i said, the blessed peacekeepers aimed and pressed the hook. he was caught up in a violent whirlwind, flying from one war to another all his life. he was chasing death. and today, finally caught up. lying in the chest at the bottom of the funnel, i was alone abandoned on the ground, black crows and something hoarse flew at dawn. they were screaming at me. my dear, we will die someday like this in childhood. my mom used to say, well the bullet knocked loudly on my chest and opened the door to immortality. the doctor's forehead was shiny with a needle, wrapped in

red gauze. i lay and danced over me the bloody dwarf. the doctor sewed on my severed leg , hid my face, cut by a mine, like house after house it is difficult little by little russia grew ukraine rise from the gloomy delirium wake up from a ghostly dream, my farewell victory, my last spring. she saved us from a hell of torture, we believed in you with a noose around your neck. victory you magic lamp,

burning from a gloomy trench. crunched ural trembled the volga lived the borders of the ghostly ribbon was torn, as a russian spring was straightened. creaking shifting continents spring wet from tears over the homeland, cut by fronts, victory you fly in a wreath of roses, wrapped in bloody bandages. the war will go away, the grass will rise and people will not find broken lips on the bookshelf about the hill and the words of my poems of my soul. fragments

dear friends, i am pleased to invite you to our next issue of the author's program besogon tv is called it will be when the case is really unfortunate, i am waiting for you with looking forward. i hope it will be interesting.

the northern sea route, the unique nuclear truck is already completely ready for the next voyage to the arctic on board building materials and equipment for the oil workers, they will be delivered from murmansk to the yenisei bay, only 3.5 thousand tons of cargo, which are very needed in the arctic with the last rays of the sun, loading ends with six holds , each of which could easily accommodate the entrance of a five-story building, securely close multi-ton covers. screens. finally, they freeze overboard opposite and begin to fuss.