Acmeism Gorodetsky biography

Oh happiness to sing, when I serve your magical beauty. In paradise, circling with me, rejoicing, and poverty together in poverty. Share with me with fire and blood, a dream, and grief, and labor. One we are constrained by love and we go under the same cross. One star shines over us, and our paths are woven. One in the whole world I can say: “Sorry! I will surrender the most terrible fate, only you forgot suffering.

The sky cries with tears of longing, the ringing of rain flies through the gardens. The petals flow with apple trees with snow. My grief, like fire, grows up. So she seized the gardens and dawned at the lakes, cut off the rays at the stars, at the evening star of the white -winged.

Alo-black fire is illuminated, terrible the arch. But, laughing and shining, in height, like a saving dream, you are standing above me, dear. I am to you from languor, I extended crazy hands from darkness. Oh, when will we see you and merge, how are the sounds in singing? But as if a reference to the mock-up of the Rakit, some light, barely noticeable, is barely noticeable on the life of the future lies.

In a transparent wind there is more good for the countries created to life. The world is spacious and multi -vanity and multi -color rainbows, and now he is entrusted to Adam, the inventor of names. To call, find out, to disrupt the covers and idle secrets and a dilapidated darkness - this is the first feat. The feat is a new one - to eat praises with living land. Or caught a deer?

No, it came with a bun of the city, he became chill and wiped his handkerchief. The bearded himself, the eyes are blue, with caressing the people, the bow gives: “Hello, friends! It's time, dear, to the old pots to rest and in honor! Here are Korchangi, Machotra, Makitra. Grutons, dishes, glow pots. Look: the artist was mutated by their artist: you’re dismissed curls and flowers!

Each pot was burned with love! You will knead the dough or you will have cereals - everything from the pot to the ethnoes to health, eat, clever, if they were stupid! Well, yes it is known: the pot is a sloping product, you have to cook and chew people! Mahotra, Makitra - a large wide clay pot, in which the poppy, peas, etc. are rubbing. The pot of pot is a clay pot for the preparation of cabbage soup.

Ivan Nikitin is forever embodied in bronze, you thought about Russia. What a fire that is unleashed through these features! What power in a dark gaze, what a sadness on a person! No one will repeat your appearance in life on earth ... Your life rushed in the gaps of need and hard work, but a star burned over you in the smallest steeps. The thoughtful singing of your shining soul all Rus' in the great one keeps the same, the more, the Holyness!

You sang to us the silence of the forest, and the life of rural comfort, and the steppe is green, colored, like the birds singing. But flour, grief and suffering, and without lumen, without the pleasures of the unfortunate life, you sang us, sang - like a person. The free will be broken by the free will of the centuries -old darkness and, like an unkind color barren, drooped before you.

Nikitin, a monument was opened in Voronezh. Gorodetsky was present at this celebration. Wanderers have long weathered faces about the winds of all their native land, eyes flying like birds from under the pushed Skufi; Steps, swift -straight, and a staff in a stone hand - so spangels the dumbness of all Rus' pass lightly. The voice of the coastal mountains, and the silence of rye fields, and the laughter of the zipper of foreign, and the light of the lunar fir trees are intelligible.

They hear the black work of the people, and all the falls, the take -off of everything, and the friendly groan of the human family in the euthers of truth and beauty. They left, the sickles and plows, having rejected - God's plugs - without the pallets sharp, without chain mail, the Holy Land of the heroes. And then they get up, the villages, villages, cities stand before them, and even the chapters of golden ones cannot be counted by their wanderings of the year.

Either the forest is dark, then a ravine, in the snow to the waist Il in the grass, they go - and with every step closer to eternal blue. On the boulders, sighing the ancients, at the intersections of everyone praying, saying a story in the villages, the ways of the holy ligat are weaving. And somewhere on the road they will hear a long way with a height of a voice: to say goodbye to Russia, with a quiet Volga, to go to heaven now.

And when before the eternal God they put their staff, what truth about a miserable, we will tell being! Plugari - Parkari. The poor poor Tula province met me in the way. I am white thorns spit a wreath to weave her. The day was frosty and windy. The child cried sobbing, in this blizzard a dead old sweat was covered. I said: - Poor, poor! Well, - accept my nickel! The Gorbatai road is bending.

In the world of groomed, trembling. What are you, Tula is rich, do you smoke samovars in vain? What are you, negligible Rus', you throw children in blizzards? Your caressing caressed disappeared where without news? Or you yourself are abandoned into darkness, mate, poverty? Woe, uninvited, unstable, fluttered your beauty? Come on, breathe old! Evil interference is dumped! So that again your strength is blossomed!

And again, a quiet path in the shores endlessly takes me away, a young swimmer. Well, how are you, Dahl, far in Rus'! Will life be short for me? There is a man wandered along the shore uphill. Apparently, Star, apparently, the poverty, apparently, has been walking the whole century. And did the edges see, did it come all the ends, how did you go into the last mountain without strength?

So take me and me, the reserved distance! I get burnt in you centuries of sadness. Well, sorrow, in Rus' you are strong! A vortex in the song dug up a Volgar-bourgeurus.And you carry, and languish, hug, like a mother - it is evident, you will have your age with you. So, let me be saddened in the distance, so that a reviving laughter flashes behind me, so that the song so firing over me over me over the great country mourning my country.

An ancient stone, dark -faced into the distance broadcast: “Death to the right, captured to the left, just a fight. The fiery maiden will stand before you. " And the knight flies with a laugh on a straight path - the winds of the field! So you strive to go home. For nomads, heaps of blue clouds, where heavenly heaven wins the beam. I knight mountains - thresholds, forest - carpet.

I have not seen such a road of God! I did not hear such a summer world of earthly! The sky is interrupted by a nap, shuddered by the heat. The onion is whistling, arrows take off, the horse rushes. Suddenly he is alert in half: smoke, fire. The fiery maiden rose, gave Niv the brilliance of violent anger, illuminated. The Knight rushed with a run, the battle flashed.

Oh, what do you rush to the Brega, scarlet rumble? Oh, where will you break the road, Vityaz, you? Not to the cherished threshold of beauty? And is it not to the bright origins of being, where good is not under the zaroca of oblivion? Gusli-samogudes are clinking, a braid will fly out in a dance. With a pen, swan swan will give it and lead - all the heart with a steep and love will be isolated.