Retribution

Yes, son loved his father then
For the first time - and, may be, the last,
Through boredom dirges, impoverished,
Through the vulgarity of life without end…
Father lay not so strictly:
Tuft of hair sticking out the crumpled;
There is a growing concern with the mystery
He reveals the eye, bent nose;
Pathetic smile contorted
Leaky compressed lips…
But decomposition - Beauty
inexplicably won…
It seemed, in this beauty
He forgot many wrongs
And he smiled hectic
A foreign military funeral service…
A mob tried, how could:
Above the grave spoken words;
Flowers lady removed
His raised shoulders;
Then, on the edges of the coffin lay
Lead stripe indisputable
(that he, resurrected, I could not stand).
Then, with unfeigned sorrow,
From the porch of the breech away
They dragged the coffin, another drowning another…
Snowless screaming blizzard.
Angry evil day follows night.

In unfamiliar areas
From town to the empty field
All walked behind the coffin on the heels…
The cemetery was called: «Will».
Yes! Song of the will we hear,
When the gravedigger shovel hits
On lumps of clay yellowish;
When they open the prison door;
When we change wives,
And his wife - we; when, having learned
The desecration of someone's rights,
Threatens the ministers and the laws
From locked with a key apartments;
When interest on capital
Free from ideal;
When… - At the cemetery, there was peace,
And indeed smelled something freestyle:
Funeral ended boredom.
Here joyous hubbub of crows
He mingled with the roar of bells…
As may be empty heart,
Everyone knew: this life - burned…
And even the sun looked
The poor father's grave.

He looked and son, trying to find
Although in the yellow pit something…
But all flashed, face breaking,
blare, constraining chest…
Three days, the three difficult years!
He felt, as a blood-curdling…
human vulgarity? Ile - the weather?
Or - filial love? –
The father of the first years of consciousness
The soul of a child left
painful memories.
The father he never knew.
They met only by chance,
Living in different cities,
So foreign in all ways
(May be, but the most secret).
The father went to him, as a guest,
crooked, with red circles
Around the eyes. For sluggish words
Often it stirs anger…
I inspire longing and evil thoughts
his cynical, a heavy mind,
Dirty fog filial thoughts.
(A silly thoughts, mladye…)
And just kind flattering look,
Happened, upadana furtively
son, strange mystery
Bursting into a boring conversation…
son remembers: in the nursery, on the couch
He sits father, smoking and angry;
And he, insanely naughty,
Spinning before his father in the mist…
Suddenly (evil, foolish child!) –
It was as if the devil pushes him,
And he plunges headlong father
Pin near the elbow…
embarrassed, poblednev of hurt,
He screamed wildly…
this cry
With the sudden brightness arose
Here, a grave, to "Vole", –
And the son woke up… blizzard whistling;
Crowd; bury Hill rovnyaet;
Rustling beats and brown leaf…
And the woman crying bitterly
Uncontrollably and light…
No one is not familiar with it. forehead
Is covered with mourning fatoyu.
What's that? heavenly beauty
it shines? Or - there
Ugly old woman's face,
And the tears roll lazily
By sunken cheeks?
And it does not then eh hospital
The coffin with his son watched over?..
here, without revealing the person, gone…
Alien people crowd around…
And sorry for the father, immensely sorry:
He also received from childhood
Flaubert's strange legacy -
Education sentimentale.
From the memorial service and impoverished
spared son; but his father's house
he is. We have to go
Him and take a look the last
On his father's life (to mouth
Therefore, we do not praise the world!)
son enters. dull, is empty
crude, dark apartment…
Accustomed to oddball considered
Father - had the right to the:
The whole resting print
His yearning character;
He was a professor and dean;
Scientists had merit;
I went to a cheap restaurant
Eat - and kept servants;
The street ran sideways
hastily, exactly hungry dog,
In Shubenko cheesy
With ragged collar;
And we see him seated
On a pile of blackened sleepers;
Here he often rested,
Vperyayas toward opustevshym
In the past… He "nullified"
All, that we appreciate in life strictly:
I do not refresh for many years
His miserable den;
furniture, on piles of books
The dust was creeping gray layers;
Here, in a fur coat he used to sit
And the stove is not drowned years;
He's Beach and a bunch of carrying:
papers, pieces of cloth,
leaflets, crust of bread, feathers,
Boxes from under papiros,
Indelible laundry pile,
Portraits, letters ladies, relatives
And even then, about in their
Poems will not tell…
And finally - the poor light

All poems of Alexander Blok