Чтобы помнили... Илья Сельвинский "Я это видел!" Можно...

To remember ...

Ilya Selvinsky
"I saw it!"

You can not listen to folk tales,
Do not believe the newspaper columns
But I saw it. With my own eyes.
Do you understand? Saw. Itself.

Here is the road. And there - a hill.
Between us here is a ditch.
Grief rises from this moat.
Woe without coast.

No! This can not be words ...
Here you have to growl! Sob!
Seven thousand shot in a frozen pit,
Rusted like ore.

Who are these people? The fighters? Not at all.
Maybe partisans? No.
Here lies the lop-eared Kolka -
He Eleven years old.

Here is all his kin. Farm "Merry".
The whole "Samostroy" - one hundred twenty yards
Near stations, nearby villages -
All the hostages were sent to the ditch.

They lie, sit, crawl onto the parapet.
Everyone has a gesture. Amazingly yours!
Winter in the dead man froze a feeling
With whom death took a living

And the corpses rave, threaten, hate ...
Like a rally, this dead silence roars.
In whatever form they fall
Eyes, grin, neck, shoulders
They fight with executioners,
They exclaim: "You won’t win!"

Guy. He's quite light.
The chest is wide open out of protest.
One leg in a thin boot
Another shines with the varnish of the prosthesis.
Light snow fells and fells ...
The chest was opened by a young disabled person.
He apparently shouted: "Shoot, hell!"
Choked. Fell. Froze.
But sentinels over the rookery of death
A crutch stuck into the ground sticks out.
And the fury of the dead did not freeze:
She calls frontline from the rear,
She set up a crutch like a shaft
And her milestone is visible far away.

Grandma. This one died while standing
She got up from the corpses and died.
Her face, glorious and simple,
Black cramp brought together.
The wind shakes its rag ...
In the left orbit, sealing wax froze
But the right eye is deep in the sky
Between the breaks of the clouds.
And in this rebuke to the Virgin Mary
Tearing down the faith of decades:
"If fascists live in the world,
 So there is no god. "

Next to the tormented Jewess.
With her a child. Just like in a dream.
What care is the baby neck
She is tied up by her mother’s gray muffler ...
Mothers have not been cheated:
Going to be shot, walking under a bullet,
One hour, half an hour before the grave
Mother saved a child from a cold.
But even death is not for them separation:
Enemies are now powerless over them -
And a red trickle from a children's ear
It flows into a handful of the mother's hand.

How scary to write about it. How creepy.
But you have to. I have to! Write!
Fascism now does not get off with a joke:
You measured the baseness of the fascist soul,
You realized in all its falsehood
"Sentimentality" of Prussian dreams,
So let them through their blue
waltzes
Sticks out motherly this handful.

Come on! Brand it! You stand in front of the slaughter
You caught them by the hand - catch me!
You see how bullet armor-piercing
The executioners crushed us
So thunder same as Dant, like Ovid,
Let nature cry itself
If you saw it all yourself
And not crazy.

But silently I stand over a terrible grave.
What are the words? The words have decayed.
There was a time - I wrote about dear,
About the clicking of a nightingale.

It would seem that in this topic this?
Truth? And meanwhile
Try to find the real word
Even for these topics.

And here? Why, nerves are right there, like bows,
But the lines ... off the beaten track boiled.
No, comrades: this flour
 Does not express the language.

He is too familiar, therefore pale.
Too graceful, so stingy,
Inexorable grammar reduced
Every scream coming from my lips

Here we need ... We need to convene a veche,
Of all the tribes from pole to pole
And take from everyone all humanity,
Everything that has broken through the ages
Screaming, wheezing, sighing and groaning
The echo of invasions, pogroms, massacres ...
This is not an adverb of bottomless flour
The words sought are akin to?

But we have such a speech,
Which all sorts of words is hotter:
Enemies showered buckshot with a curse.
The batteries of the prophets rattle.
Do you hear trumpets on the lines?
Confusion ... Screams ... Thugs turn pale.
Run! But they have nowhere to run
From your bloody grave.

Loosen the muscles. Cover your eyelids.
Climb up at these heights with grass.
Who saw you now forever
He will take away all your wounds in the soul.

Moat ... Will you say a poem about him?
Seven thousand corpses.
              Semites ... Slavs ...
Yes! This is impossible in words.
 Fire! Only by fire!

1942, Kerch