С праздником, друзья! С Днём Победы! Недавно я...

Happy holiday, friends! Happy Victory Day!
I recently read a good poem from a front-line poet and I want to share it. He made a big impression on me.

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 it is -
  moat.
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
Nearest stations, nearby villages -
All the hostages were sent to the ditch.
 
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 so died.
Her face, glorious and simple,
Black cramp brought together.
The wind shakes her 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,
 Therefore, 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 ginger trickle
 from the children's ear
Is flowing down
 handful
 maternal
 hands.
 
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
 through them
 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
 all this
 you yourself
 saw
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 ...
Not that
 adverb
 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!
 
Ilya Selvinsky
 1942, Kerch