Dead languages

From the lyrics of this summer

In the evening in August near the Big River,
Say on the Volga, Oka and Kama,
Where the dull fishermen rustle
Yellow reeds,
In the backwaters, where are the snags and tops
Seem out to the sky with outstretched hands,
Where the shores are wild, whirlpools are deep,
The villages are inhabited by ancient old people,
With white shoes, with cosmas of the color of raw flour,
Grinding forever silent windmills,
At dusk crawling like unknown shelves,
With lilac flags, dark leaders,
Or like feral, abandoned puppies -
With imploring eyes, with bloodied fangs,
In areas where the living look dead,
And the dead are friendly and close -
You can hear as they rustle dead languages
Dead languages.

Once they were suitable for holidays and things,
Departed from everyday life,
Costume, weapons, chisels, sour cabbage soup,
Grandfather's uniform, grandmother's chest of drawers,
Torture ancient rites, holy relics,
Elaborate rules of the extinct people,
Which seemed eternal, that your stroke,
But turned out to be changed, like the weather,
Swellful, like the color of the autumn sky,
But comprehend, smaller and worse.

Before they were suitable for the name of those
Mixed conditions, such as annoyance,
Mixed with love; cloudless children's laughter,
Mixed with wild malice; warlike armada,
Mourning the fallen; A soldier who put on armor,
But frightened of a sudden leaf fall;
Innocent Virgin, ready to fall into a sin,
But mechanically crying "do not";
The ridiculed sadness, poisoned joy,
A murderous delight, desirable failure ...
Now they will back, like a fired brigade,
The closed workshop leaving forever,
Subdivision of a rumbling night-spacecraft,
Where the products were not cooked secret for everyone.

There was a dictionary, Petroglyph, a set of quotes,
Antiquities of the contour paradise and the smell of hell:
Latin rumbles, crimson, like a sunset,
The Dori Military, Athenian civilian mutters,
Sumerian, followed by Akkadsky, is shelter in the grass
And the Babylonian, like a tower, is laying out.

Once they were suitable for words of love,
Sighs and groans, statues or mosaic,
They were yelling "die", prayed "live",
The poet cooed at them, the prose writer was worried,
Now their lot is taxonomy, flu, SARS,
Cholera Morbus, Cleaning, Dinosaurus,
The historian in the dust and surgeon in the blood know them,
And there are those that no one knows.

Before Caesarev’s wife was true,
In the cabin, the solone broadcast, and sculpted the Praxist,

But the times ended, the tribes died out,
The stirrups scattered, the tunic has worn out.
The country was extensive, the grammar is wise,
The vocabulary is branched, but the carrier failed.

Words, concepts, names were forgotten,
The harbor pulled Tina, a empty monastery,
The walls and land are not sorry, the Lord is a witness, -
Sorry for his tongue and his son - me.

He would have remained with his soul, but there was no phone.
It would have no more river, but there was no land.
He would still coo, chirp, whistled,
He swore and cursed, but there is no one to listen.
He would recall the essence, but there were no existence,
He dissolved, but did not come to terms with that.

Here is the rustling rustling river,
Howls the beast, raising his faces to heaven,
A dark pile of granite, limestone,
Blades, bones - lies an empty mordor,
Licks the moon with his tongue half -dead
A half -dead native speaker.