SERGEY POVALYAEV

 

HOME

 ***

An old house, wrapped in winter

The furnace slowly flares up.

Smoke - the smoker is hunched over the chimney

And the snowstorms have a cold speech.

There are no traces of either beast or bird here -

Everything is in snowdrifts of white and blue.

The spruce forest is silvering in the distance

And there are no paths to it.

An old house and two windows of sadness.

Loneliness - an old woman on the stove,

Is he composing poems about the past,

He's grumbling at the present...

 

2

 

How tired of the towers of the house.

How exhausting their stone cold.

Let's build the terem again,

Where is the bread in the oven

And the smell of shavings is long…

 

3

 

Don't forget about the old places.

It doesn't matter if your path is day or night.

The way to your home is always shorter.

Don't forget about the old places!

And you'll come and sit on the porch.

And the painted shutters will open for a moment.

And pigeons fly to your shoulders,

Kissing down your hair.

 

SERGEY POVALYAEV