After graduating from high school in 1913, Bolshakov goes to law faculty of Moscow University. Then, in the autumn of 1913, he released his small lithographed poem «Le future» with illustrations by Mikhail Larionov and Natalia Goncharova - a book, once banned and confiscated by the censors for "immoral" images of Mikhail Larionov. (Only a negligible number of instances of horrible to readers.)

Vadim Shershenevich, poet and writer, later recalled about the book «Le future»: «Bolshakov issued a book of poems. The poems were almost weak and almost respectable. Caesura confiscated the book. Frankly, the grounds for forfeiture was not, and it could be explained only grouch censorship. Confiscation of the poetry collection, and even on the pornography charges, was a phenomenon at that time so rare that it immediately created a buzz around the name Bolshakov. And further: "... Bolshakov came to Futurism as soon as they opened a poetic eye. His eyes were large, deep and sincere. Good were the eyes.

In the same 1913 in publishing the Mezzanine of Poetry "published another poetry collection" The Heart in hand. The book's title Bolshakov borrowed from the French poet Jean Laforgue. Cover of the book belonged to the same Natalia Goncharova.

The publication of these books put Konstantin Bolshakov, in the first ranks of the Russian Futurists, and the poet himself in 1913 was to be a member of the literary community. He wrote in his autobiography: "Poetry began to write with 14 ili15 years of age. Around about the same time - meeting with V. Bryusov. In naive mandatory question: "Should I write" - had received a lengthy charge, as are things to be working, what to pursue, what to strive. These destiny guided obviously little (...) Released book of poems in 1913, «Le future» (By the way, the confiscated royal censor), put me in the camp the then Futurists. After a year or two youthful ambition could be satisfied with reviews and notes, called one of the masters of the new school. "

Here K. Bolshakov was referring Pasternak, which he cited "... as one of the most gifted futurists, as a true lyricist.

Indeed, in verse Bolshakov joined features poetics Mayakovsky and Severianin and abstruse poem "Spring" glorified poet in literary circles.

               Spring

       The air of a child kissing
       The trees are hung clezy,
       Punching, as shell eggs,
       Snow steps. A thorn in the heart ...
       And you pass by and bring
       My love and memories of thousands of
       Icicles on the roofs fragile noses
       Sharpened. And you now ...
       Oh, I know that in the summer of mothballs
       Shift all the winter things
       Feeling that the time is long,
       A depression is much sharper.

Bolshakov was a significant figure of Russian Futurism. It is recalled that futurism was born in the early twentieth century, became one of the universal artistic phenomena, which affected all areas of culture, such as: literature, painting, architecture, music. It was a revolt against a positive "public taste", against the canons of dead classical heritage and mystical ideals. "

This new literary school, which arose in Italy, a school, headed by a young Italian poet Marinetti innovator, has found an excellent ground for the Russian literary and artistic soil.

But Russian Futurism had its own unique look, and if the Italian futurism represented one group of Marinetti, the notion of "Russian Futurism" accommodated in a whole range of phenomena - from the stressed independent Cubo-Futurists to epigones Mezzanine of Poetry "and close to expressionism members of the Union of Youth . Bolshakov, oscillated between these two groups finally found myself standing on the position of Cubo-Futurists. This direction is more consistent with his worldview.

"Painting and poetry first become aware of their freedom," - with that finding has its roots in kubofuturizm, a unique movement organically reconnect literature and art in search of new collaborative forms of expression.

In March 1913 the literary association "Gilea" mingled on the Rights of the federation with the Union of Youth ", creating a society of artists and poets. The basis of this alliance was the proximity of the creative principles on which their paintings and poetry. Rapprochement between the two arts contributed to the fact that many Russian avant-garde artists wrote poetry, and poets drew.

Poems written Filonov, Rozanov, Kandinsky, Malevich, Chekrygin, Larionov. Some equally have been painters and poets: Mayakovsky, Elena Guro, David Burliuk, torsion, Khlebnikov, Zdanevich, Nicholas Burliuk. The latter with good reason can be attributed, and K. Bolshakov, who had an outstanding artistic abilities. His brother, Nikolai Bolshakov, who died in 1919, was a talented professional artist.

Between the years 1913-1916. poet regularly published in various Cubo-Futurist almanacs and collections: "Dead Moon", "Spring kontragentstvo muses," Moscow masters "," From the battery of the heart "," Crematorium sanity "and others, as well as in editions of" Centrifuge "(" Peta "," The second collection of centrifuges "," cut down kiss ").

Poems Bolshakov gladly printed and other futuristic publication, regardless of group differences. They had a novelty, coarseness, sensuality, urbanism, nonsense, neologisms, compound of rhyme, rhythm disturbance. Although Bolshakov, as has been said, tended to kubofuturizmu it was probably he embodied the "golden mean" futuristic poetry.

It is symptomatic that when he performed together with Mayakovsky, it is called in contrast to the bass "Jasmin tenor." After polemical clashes poets became friends, and in the collection "Spring kontragentstvo Muses" (1915) appeared a cycle of 8 verses Bolshakov, "City in the summer with the dedication:" Friendly Mayakovsky in memory of Moscow's May 1914 "

Witness these days Boris Pasternak wrote in "Safe Conduct": "Of the many people whom I saw next to him, Bolshakov was the only one I have combined with him, without any stretch. Both could listen to with any consistency, not forcing myself ... In a society Bolshakov for Mayakovsky did not hurt the heart, he was in line with them and not dropping yourself.

In 1916 he went at once, two collections of the poet: "The poem's" in publishing "Peta" (a numbered edition of 453 copies in quantity., 5 of which are inscribed) and "The Sun is poured. The second book of poems. 1913-1916 "published in" centrifuges ". The cover to the last executed L. Lissitzky.

It was last published in print poetry collections Bolshakov. By this time he became somewhat estranged from poetry.

«Yesterday we buried the sun ...»

Yesterday, we buried the sun.
And in the hour, as the sea we came,
What a wave said
And burning in the distance.

Spinning in a fun light dance,
We made our ritual,
But suddenly changed color,
And the evening was a sad-holy.

By bending the earth, night and whispered:
Die, sleep. Whatever.
And the sun sank into the sea ...
And it was sad and dark.



«Brave way mad slave only ...»

Brave way to fool only knowledge,
Those who are alien to the insane vanity,
Who does not go to the general, dead after
And others do not pray dream.

No, his dream of a bright, proud,
He goes free path,
And in his heart sing chords
Beauty - inaudible crowd.

His journey crowd far, in vain,
Strange to her a loving face.
And leave it - bold, beautiful,
Lonely, crazy and great!



Sonnet

I stood alone in thought. Authoritatively Sea
I am calling in the unknown distance.
I look forward with hope in her eyes -
Gets the surf - I do not regret the coast.

Where am I, on the wave, at large
'll Fly you? Tell me, do not go there eh,
Where there is no happiness where sorrow reigns,
Or a bright land where sorrow is unknown?

No answer: not listening to me,
You are rushing into the distance, a beckoning
His ceaselessly-splashing excitement.

And boldly I entrust frail canoe
Elemental power incomprehensible waves
Embarking on a journey with hope and doubt.

Ave

Exclamation light Ave
You filled the house of Madonna
And to her invisible glory
Touch a dream love.

Just remember: in the white house
White voice pray for you.
Know: was no longer with us
Those whose thoughts are unclean.



lamentation

Where people prayed once
And they dug the graves of the dead,
There stood rows of soldiers
Another man's cold force.

And slowly the bodies out
In the morning blind and starless,
And fun dance Turns
Over the black abyss of the tomb.

Soldiers lifeless systems
The banners before the dead drift.
And we, we are still digging:
Each other, they are buried.

attraction

                                 Nick. Thirza Terzieva

Swings, swings, sadness, sorrow tossed swing: "shut up",
And the cry of sorrow swing swung, grief swings in the night.
Overturned in pitching,
His head swam.
Clenched white lights.
You face not stained
(Shadow of the slime was held)
In scarlet shawl angle dawn ....
The driver ... In a cab off the swing
Grief rested bright eyes ...
Minutes melted and melted
Where drifted lamp gas ...
What next? And then swing, swing sorrow shook - "shut up"
And the cry of sorrow swing swung, grief swings in the night.

July 1913


Vernissage autumn

Autumn street sobbing you
The heart caught, dampness caressing.
Foil windows stores Filippova
It shines spray asphalt Tverskaya.

Smoke gaze advertising Teasing.
Oh, rapture is not necessary, do not ...
Gold buttons tore the sky
Stars, abandoned by your eyes.

And you're slipping, the only one on the street,
Splashing in the eye of a blue haze
And where there is darkness, how your eyes, tyulitsya,
Over the next second you on the corner.

And where the building collapsed in failure
A moment of bitterness and empty hearts,
You blatantly in her eyes burst out laughing
Smile red advertising Pasha.

<1913>


spring

The air of a child kissing
The trees hung with tears,
Pierce, as shell eggs,
Snow steps. A thorn in the heart ....

And you pass and races by
My love and memories of thousands of
Icicles on the roofs fragile noses
Sharpened. And you now ...

Oh, I know that in the summer of mothballs
Shift all the winter things
Feeling that the time is long,
A depression is much sharper.



Spring City

Esmer, verdomi, Trouvère spring,
Lisileya fields Eleele alielit.
Vizizami visas snuet silence
Kiss in Tieschen verelloe trills
Auxemite, oksami zizam out of sleep,
Auxemite oksami Whereupon izomelit.
Foaming caresses Vel Velam Velen,
Lilalet alil Vel aground.
Esmer, verdomi Trouvère spring.
Alliel! Beskrylatost elytra sang.
Esmer, verdomi Trouvère spring.

<1913>



Madrigal

My eyes eve of the summer night,
In July, the evening of blue tulle.
In them, every moment becomes shorter,
And in each Miguet breathe only you.

January 1913



A few words to my memory

I hung his coat on the moon.
Stars in the sky rippled my soles
And after them plunged into silence.
In the shadow of sharp. Then you whispered a lie?

I have long been dreaming spat
Nadgreznomu flight in roses hearts
And my lips Roubinyan Coral
You conquered in turn the color of dreams.

Do not you afraid, can not you afraid
Being there, where dreams wither garden yesterday,
And stoop to almazyaschim said
Her breasts dreamy Tower
Her breasts matins tower.

And even lace istkal said
And the evening yearning felt,
I am at this moment came, as in the ancient temple,
As for the station under the glass dome of blue.


«Peel bad tea. In the window streamed ...»

Peel bad tea. In the streaming
Sunset Cinnabar Gold
Flow. And the evening leaned close,
Whispering next to someone behind the wall.
Candle tarnished your views.
You drew a finger - what pattern? -
The tablecloth. And a branch of grapes
Rubin sprinkled distant mountains.
Oh, it's too quiet, so utter
To scream, - the happiness here, here, here "you"!
Rang softly silver silence
And in a narrow vase of flowers was collapsing.
Oh, it's too quiet to close
Wind purple lips and trembling hands -
Above vzornomerknuschey candle without the risk
You were being covered, desires moths.

July 1913


Dedication

On the sidewalk of the heart on the pavements of streets,
In the past you longing tulle
Above the canopy of night, poems of poems amurnitsey,
Hammer - gilded words.
Vpetlichiv in the heart of clove blood
Sineozerit tired eyes Blvd.
To whom the sun languor in bed catches,
Fruit izrubinit vazny fire.
And you, oh, only, my poems are prepared -
Meter d'otel, smiling unconcern chandelier
How can a pre-dinner agreed upon
Improvise in the art of smiling,
To the eyes were slipping knees, oh no, not close,
And you, as the evening were tender.
For you, oh, the only spirits soul dripped,
When you dropped a smile, pulling off his glove to the heart.

<1913>


«factory chimneys of coal soot ...»

Factory chimneys of coal soot
On my eyelashes sadness black velvet
The eyes of anger slowly mending,
In the gray sky angrily Harka.

Weak-headed steam break through the door proprelye,
Clenched white-gray steel biceps.
Jewelers hours doing painstaking.
Tysyachegovornoy factory dialects Pour

Blinking, embarrassed at the gates of electricity,
Tired of the gray afternoon prokoketnichav.
Entire night audience with Her Majesty,
Magnificent of the magnificent Medici.

<1913?>

In a review of the latest Bryusov wrote: "In the era of the birth of our futurism, 10 years ago, Konstantin Bolshakov was marked by critics as one of the most talented representatives of this movement. With appreciation should be noted that the young poet did not stop at the first of its achievements. His new poems early and significant in content and form. Much of the poetry of Konstantin Bolshakov still within technical "pursuit" and, as such, need and interest only for a limited circle of readers. But some poems are already quite finished creating entitled to general attention. Such, for example, "Quiet story, describing the modern barracks, where -


       and the story won the paymaster
       Does not seem old -

       And with exclamations -
       And you, dreamers - about sultry mulatto,
       About the best countries in the light of suns,
       To understand whether that heart in the chest barefoot soldier,
       As the sun shines bright and joyful!

Nowadays there is hardly any need to hurry to publish the book Bolshakov, but the author deserves encouragement. October 21, 1920 Bryusov.

However, May 17, 1921 based on feedback I. Kasatkin and IV Aksenova, a collection of "Angel of all who Sorrow" was adopted in LITO for publication, but publication of it, as has been said, was never implemented. Somewhat later, in the anthology "From the battery of the heart" in 1922, were printed from the two poems: "Even the heart is beating" and "In the mirror of the night, in the well of someone's eyes."

Among the collection of autographs of my library has a folder where the selected materials relevant to K. Bolshakov. Among other things, some typewritten, Corrections author's poems: "When, as in raduyuschem sweet dreams ..", "Glory, Killer hour ..." etc., with his notes from the never seen the light collection of "Angel of mourning."

Here, his poetry collection "The sun is poured with a warm autographed Nikolai Mikhailovich Tsereteli, a well-known actor of the Moscow Chamber Theatre (Theatre Tairov), with whom Bolshakov was a friend of many years. "Nikolai Mikhailovich Tsereteli soul to him looking and admiring them. Author. 1/HP 22. Moscow. After 1922, Bolshakov no longer returns to the poetic path, thus the literary path he falls as if in two stages. First - before the army, which includes mostly poetry of the author, and the second - after the army, which included his prose works.

But the path to the environment was not for writers Konstantin Bolshakov, strewn with roses, he had to overcome many obstacles, prior to this transition. He later wrote about this difficult period for themselves: "... having parted with the literature of the poet, prose writer, returned to it ... pretty heavy and uninteresting way - through the work in the newspaper ..."

This way, a length of 5 years ended in 1927, the release of 2 collections of stories about Soviet life, the events of the Civil War, to which was the author. This is the "Fate of chance" and "The Way of lepers." The latter was published "by the Moscow Writers 'partnership'. Also in 1927 the Moscow publishing house "Nikitinsky subbotniks publishes his novel" Sgonoch.

In 1928 in Moscow started to leave the collected works Bolshakov, managed to get only volumes 2, 3, 4. By the end of 1928 the writer completed his historical novel "Flight of prisoners, or history of suffering and death of Lieutenant Tenginskiy Infantry Regiment, Mikhail Lermontov, who was released in early 1929 in Kharkiv in the publishing house" the Proletariat ". This novel has been widely recognized reading rubles and repeatedly reprinted during the life of the author.

For several years the writer worked on an extensive novel Marshal 105th day ", which included some elements of his life. \\

Bolshakov had intended to release it in 3 books. First - "Building a phalanx" - was published Goslitizdat in 1936 and 17 September of that year Aristarchovitch Konstantin Bolshakov, a former royal cornet and the commander of the Red Army, a remarkable poet and writer, was arrested.

The manuscript is the second part of the novel, as well as other papers his archives were seized during the arrest of the representatives of bodies and disappeared into the cellars of the Lubyanka. Work on the third book Bolshakov did not have time to start.

April 21, 1938, together with a group of writers and poets, which included Boris Pilnyak, S. Budantsev, I. Kasatkin and others, Konstantin Bolshakov was shot.

During the Khrushchev "thaw" in 1956, he was rehabilitated, and 10 December 1956 was posthumously reinstated in the Writers' Union.

Self Portrait

Young man in love with a vicious and gentle eyes,
Under tuxedo easily unscrewed dark,
With a cold gleam in his eyes, with exquisite parting.
And with a coat thrown soul poet.

Smiles of a sinful sorrow for languor lakes
Evil eye without a tear-filled eyes dawn
A glimpse of the eye for eye elusive quick
At moments flashed and doomed world.

A loose, dark man with exquisite parting.
With evil eyes without tears, eyes dawn,
Young man in love with a vicious and gentle eyes
And with a coat thrown soul poet.

1914


Evening
                                        A. Egert

Evening in the palm of your hand you give me, a silent heart.
Step tired tram at the burning west
Flexible neck arc lifts with sad persistence.
Mouths of arc lamps white teeth bared.
Evening - exquisite dandy to not casually rumpled Panama
One wanders lazily on subdued alarm panels,
Summer, like a thin Breguet, he quietly ticking in strict
Karmana vest. I give you even in the palm,
                                    Silent heart.

April 1914, Moscow.



«Lights port taverns ...»

Lights port taverns,
Diamonds smiles and curses.
In the evening sounds of the hair.
Dust intertwined. Dream intimidated.

Asleep on the lips cursing people.
The evening as a narrow terrain.
Silent-dipped sleeps in emerald
Somebody lost his anger.

Flirt-stars along the harbor.
Dead for the ward of sails.
Above the pier lights in a white shroud
Silence slid the bolt.

Overnight, a woman is not combed,
Sea leaning on his shoulder
Pensive, and a thousand postures she
Assuming breathed into his face shines.

July 1914, Odessa



Osenenoch

The wind, the sky overturn tuzhas,
Isslyunyavil wet kiss on the glass.
Cloak of rain tearing, blue horror
Tears blinding light faded.

Telegraph wires, all violin
On the moon smashed fingers at night.
Lamps in the elevator fatal error
Raising urn streets, laughing.

Bronze-step through the belfry
Heavy, heel stepped years
Where, weary shot tribute to the tram-slave
Beating, sluggish seconds gave.

<1914>


Autumn

Under the sky taverns, crystal violins in a Cup
It grows and moves an invisible mist
Beryl-rimmed glasses of liquor in a brittle
Bodily pink, opening a banana.

Breath gentle transparent silent
In the green grass whisper and squeal blind-fire
From the shadows of the blue suddenly zagrustevshey Duma,
As a timid whisper days, request: "Take me."

Under the sky streaked with gray towers of old taverns
Blow morning weaves hours.
You sleep, and I live, and in the veins of blood carries
Crystal violins ringing from the goblet of votes.

<1914>



Autumn years

I went dry as old algebra
The living fall, as milk bubble,
Mischievous sun on a stick sconces
Not elektrichaschih, wearing glow, crackling in dumb phone.

And crumble thoughts tired wires
Thoughtful ringing kiss lights
And my hair silver, precious water
Grey pour sickly days.

Hilo coughed steps departed noise,
And I went and go in a wreath Cruel seconds.
Do you understand? Enough to see the evening in a pose only a negro groom
Too black to be seen as the trampled earth ground.

<1914>





After ...

                          Yuri Yurkunu

Sberut pieces in the box memory
Days flying banners sway
And covered with letters, rotted literacy
Write the names of blood

Others believe a severe crash
In the fields of jagged trenches
Once again, to hear one of their breath though
And whisper trampling buried here people ...

Autumn wind tight strings
Rocked trees in a sad waltz:
"Oh, just above them, just above the young
Have mercy, oh have mercy, have mercy. "

A hymn of shrapnel wounds in the sky,
Blowing sparks a bloody foam
Breath gloomy gray ocean
On Prisoner of St. Helena,

Shadows, the rebels are reluctant
Keep track of wings fluttering victories
Where gentle fist crack of machine-gun
At the thunder of bursting years ...

October 1914, Moscow


Romantic Evening

                     Vl. Mayakovsky

The evening was terribly cumbersome,
No sooner was placed in a street reticule -
Inaudible knight in a weary air,
Hair evening buzzing hive

Second is to cut off the panels,
And the sword lingers on the dial.
Flew, auto threatened, - partition, ...
Chained silence in armor,

Closing the visor wonderful sadness
A person unknown to one,
As if someone does not miss,
Do not say kindly "go away".

April 1914, Moscow.

Le chemin de fer

"I had a drink! I had a drink! ", - Plaintive cry Do
We, in satin robes, the figure of cards?
That we, as a star, fortunately loomed
In runny thaw Mart
We, like wings, fluttered and beat
Above the staircase, where the level of unsteady,
When morning came out victorious
Black ace from under calm nines.
But when looked to the heart of despair
The proud gaze of the ladies and kings
Like swung wandered accidentally
The breeze become exposed to brownfields,
That we are golden rain fell
To hinder anxiety and sadness,
And on the green field sprinkled and poured
So much fun, learned by heart ...
"I had a drink! I had a drink "- a plaintive cry Do
We, in satin robes, the figure of cards?
That we, as a star, fortunately loomed
In runny thaw in March.

<1915>


Belgium

                   Vladislav Khodasevich

Like ink outlines fingers channels
Night - cloth, gray surface without end,
Here in the tired heart troubles tired
Slipped quietly smile to the face.

Black city fell quiet engraving
On the pages of the open and abandoned books
And go, go thoughtfully frowning
For tayaschimsya instantly lurking moment.

Sleep, last night! These brittle fingers
So shrill shoulders earth intertwined,
These children are sensitive, minutes sufferers
Forever in this gray calm clothed.

And for the eternal sleep, let them build a legend
How delicate towers severe palaces,
And poems zapletutsya dressed in ribbons
Tingle, as a set of golden bells.

But today, as tomorrow, overwhelmed not sick ...
This blood, these stains do not spray the same wounds,
And spilled the sound of your bell,
How bloody poppies in white mist.

Go to sleep last night! And there will be two Belgian
Dream kolyshat rumbling thunder of battle.
This month and year! Even in the nursery bed,
As a pattern, have been woven into tears prayers.

October 1915, Moscow




Winter

                         Bor Neradovu

Evening hammers in his ears feast
Those who did not want to look into his eyes,
Because all souls yearning teases
Stretching across the sky, the Milky Way,

Because violently and rudely
For an hour before telling them,
That somewhere is unusual lips
And the thin, silver name.

Teased and told in such a way that even a small puddle
Already frozen squeaked: - Well, -
I have a tear on the eyelash pearls,
And he drags in some stellar dance.

And from her squeak whether to laugh whether
Rearing streets, carrying a measured step
Stars on the horizon swung and drove,
Stumbling on each other in the dark.

And above the black abyss, where the white thread
Light represents the city does not Early Rada Elections Necessary,
Most pure frost woven
Milky Way and Ursa Major.

February 1915


Poland

                    Mikhail Kuzmin

The July sun bakes and luxuriating,
Watching the bustle of alarm,
As dusty cloud refugees
Tape roll across the roads.

Day breaks out and will be
To burn the earth and dust chest
Now go and leave people
In the closely trailing path.

And behind them, as a holiday, in strips and chasuble
Eyes clear and gentle follow,
As the next steps of many hundreds of divisions
Your swaying silence.

And rang hollow spurs and sabers
The ringing of crumbling, as coquettish laughter
Like fragile fingers feel cold
Willows surrounding the running of your rivers.

Schley, and strangled, a rusty
The clanking of iron rings Packet
You see the heart of Warsaw burned
Hot tears volunteer.

Black bird flying year, when there came,
Fields of Poland steaming blood,
Only constrained by the heart in chains of fog
Only flour brows.

Will be ... Everywhere
A sigh went through the battles - going all
Under the scorching gaze of the July sky
Pile up their carts and talking highway.

July 1915

And

At the hour when sunset and goes off in the evening,
As if with outstretched hands pleading trees
For me there is nothing to spill too
In this stream nerasslyshannyh words.

But it's you, whose eye dazzling need
So that my voice over the life was raised,
Whose sadness, a necklace of pearls lacrimal
In a strange and distant today.

And whose lips could not be mine
Never, but the holy of all holy places,
After all, your silvery name
Something went through dreams.

Does it matter who again illuminate
Like a candle in front of the days.
Light, under this whisper sacrilegious
You go to sleep ...

And the dream will not find me,
Gentle and quiet joy
You're wrapped in a silver ring name,
How softly caressing the fur.

<1916>


Today

                              Mame

Someone whispered rustle of torment
The whole evening on the wounded son
In the strings taut and tilted hands
Firmament hesitated, silent and blue.

The October twilight, tearful mourning
Tears ran down to the white-haired person,
And the roaring rails in the morning "Hurrah!"
Thundered in my ears glass stations.

Heart wounded growing tramp
Somewhere in the distance past squads,
And hastily lacerations darn
Cast iron clang like cars.

Bony fingers in a bloody fire now
Welling pray: help, save,
After the bloody crown glow
Hung tough sky events.

The clouds, like veins, bloodshot
Leaked through the flames out,
And could not weep about the proportion of widow
In the ears of the October cold.

October 1916

Aeromechta

Vzmotorit up, sleep on the propeller,
Fall asleep here, here and her head thrown back,
Here, here, where the gray in the north
Merged blinding blue tin.

At the sound of a bumblebee jokes and pranks,
On air stynuschy dressed in furs
We throw up from earth to earth a bit of pity
Golovokruzhas in dreams comets.

And again, as before, fallen asleep on the propeller,
At the noise of a bumblebee jokes and pranks,
We just go down to greznom Veere
At thrown us a bit of pity.

August 1918


«You carry love in an exquisite bottle ...»

You carry love in an exquisite bottle,
In the cut crystal laughing soul.
In roses azure eyes smile heart sinks.
In roses azure eyes - rosebuds calm.

Spirits of the verses in a dream, a captivating delights,
Pass on roses roses azure eyes in the eye
You whispered to me, you whispered close
The fact that you were whispering about, many, many times.

You carry love in an exquisite bottle.
In the cut crystal laughing soul.
And the smell of roses to bury my dreams,
What you have whispered that it was said in silence.