Leonid Aronzon. From the unpublished

***

Stumbling into the ugliness of the roots
(if it is pouring in the fall), wandering around
By magical longing of villages,
look under the dusk on the slope

and crumble in the roars of dew,
so mortally look for - and forget
on the moon, in the desert to cool
And scorch the eyes of the lightning.

Know that clouds, like fairy tales, crawl,
Touching each other under another
Get down for a slanting thunderstorm
And strive for a risky corner.

1958

***

Extinct world, a dumb print
Clouds are scorched in the concave sky,
The word is like stupidity, and the wind from the tub
The downpour splashes into the shared innocence.

There is no memory, not a dream or time,
Thoughts fell out, eyes remained,
The continuous juniper compresses into the darkness,
Pines and shadows through the terrible forests.

There is neither you nor him, and in the basket
leaves <and> Suchiev, falling to the bottom,
the moon shines - neither take away nor humiliate
Neither to lose or understand.

1958

***

About the lamp weave - Lamma,
Utility, beast, evening
neighbor, when in the channel weak
The house behind the bars is swollen

when is the stone-bucket is not stronger
flower running from asthma,
When it froze in the branches: God!
clothing hidden colorful,

When the cobblestone is shaking
And the wounds voiced the wheels -
like from well bastards
Have you saved?

What flour guarded
Your wine in the bottles of old

About the cry of childbirth on the edge
Souls, penny of that puddle,
that the house is trembling, where is a wooden dinner
The hook pulls me off

1963

All kinds of thoughts

Sonnet

No longer trembled by two vaunted words
And I will not bargain for the heat at the side.
How canvas is sewn with filament, harsh
Such is the landscape: tugboat, fog, baroque.

Like a mirror, will double the loneliness
The volume of the soul and the premature shelter.
My breathing in this world is exactly:
All pigeons fly into the space of windows.

When in the dark before the snowfall
I say my words is not true
And the soul lies, and it brings me plenty

deaf lakes, raw stones and boats,
And I know that I am in all a shortage
And that I will die when the word disappears ...

November 16, 1963

***

What does life have to do with such peace!
I stand alone, closing my eyes with my hand,
I touch another night landscape,
I watch how I dance behind the river.
Yes, here the river flows down the hill,
All my life is my testimony
And, shinging the shining darkness,
The river mutters there about something, I don’t understand!

1963 (?)

***

A frequent night of the fields thinks how to be.
The wind of my soul is spinning here for a long time.
The night fool is dancing in the fog of the decayed aspen,
Like a mountain stream, I run away.
Where cowing eyes tinned the pond.
I find out the flowers, a gentle flight there.
August poured stars on the bed in the grass of the moon,
My echo is sad, forgetting my song.

1964 (?)

***

Thinly birds
killed shadow
Knocking
where I sat under God's palm
Roads sprinkled with sadness
And at noon it seemed
Transparent hands of fire -
what came to life
in the eyes of a gone horse

1965

1 × 7

Sneaking up from the back, my sad eyes close
palms (then I will kiss them),
To find out: what kind of ball? And whose thigh I feel with my hand?
No, I do not value my longing
God with her, with longing, after one - the other!
Where did the river come from
And strawberries? Ah, you are here, dear!

Moscow, summer, evening (1968)

***

Someday I will wake up and I will not die,
And I will call the bird, and I will go out into the house,
And all I let go, married
in a stream, shooting behind his water,

and the body of the boat, a handful of her silence
About birds, where? - Not everything is equal to, driving,
I will let go without noticing traces
And again I will wake up in the dumb shadow of her.

1963 (?)