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  • January. Seasons

    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the newRembrandt van Rijn art

    year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    January. Seasons





    January begins with a holiday that separates the old from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.



    Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

    I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

    Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...

    January

    You are moving into the new year,
    As in a new rut.
    You from past misery
    Carries a car.
    Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
    And the branches are background,
    And the eye laughing burns,
    As a traffic light.

    At the bottom of the wheel swell,
    It's dark around.
    That's how you enter, runner,
    On a new circle.
    To you from speed to get drunk,
    Breaking business,
    A glass of thinly ringing
    Oh the edge of the table.



    Do not sum up the changes
    In your destiny,
    Alien changes, your betrayals,
    Change to you.
    And behind the window a wolf howling
    In the night pore
    And the trees of your childhood
    Stand in the square.
    (A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

    Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

    The future is not enough.
    Old, new little.
    It is necessary that the Christmas tree
    Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

    To the hostess poked
    A scattering of stars her dress,
    To all for the holidays
    Sisters and brothers came together.

    How many chains or try on,
    No matter how you tie with the toilet,
    Still seems a tree
    Naked and half-dressed.

    Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
    After beating his hair with a club,
    Elka puffed up lady
    In several skirts with a bell.



    The faces become more stony,
    A shiver runs through the candles,
    Flames of a lighted flame
    Lips squeeze the heart.

    The night before dawn is satiated.
    All shuddering from snoring,
    The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
    The door closes.

    New twilight follows,
    The day decreases in growth.
    Breakfast slept, lunch
    Overnight guests.

    The sun sets, and the drunkard
    From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
    Through the window stretches
    To bread and a glass of cognac.

    Here it is stuck, ugly,
    In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
    Colors of filling currant,
    The village is decaying and extinct.


    link name
    art for sale

  • Fairy-tale ... Good evening

    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    Fairy-tale ... Good evening















     

     Have a nice evening and a fabulously wonderful mood ... Chmok!

     


     He and Cinderella with his stepmother, he and the old man with the old woman,

    but these words are said in the telephone ear,

    but such notes leave me under a stone -

    waking up, looking for them, sand raking my hands.

    He writes to me: "I miss death, I work badly:

    did not manage to touch the mandatory centner of peas,

    and today I will go back to throw the net.

    How I want to sit next to you! It is desirable to the left. "

    The hearts appear at the bottom of my cup of coffee.

    We, of course, will help both the fish and aunt fairy -

    draw, then revive a whole heap of pictures,

    where he will dance with me.

    Without crystal shoes ...

    (Nika Nevyrazimov)
     








     

























    Igor Goncharov
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    Fairy-tale ... Good evening















     

     Have a nice evening and a fabulously wonderful mood ... Chmok!

     


     He and Cinderella with his stepmother, he and the old man with the old woman,

    but these words are said in the telephone ear,

    but such notes leave me under a stone -

    waking up, looking for them, sand raking my hands.

    He writes to me: "I miss death, I work badly:

    did not manage to touch the mandatory centner of peas,

    and today I will go back to throw the net.

    How I want to sit next to you! It is desirable to the left. "

    The hearts appear at the bottom of my cup of coffee.

    We, of course, will help both the fish and aunt fairy -

    draw, then revive a whole heap of pictures,

    where he will dance with me.

    Without crystal shoes ...

    (Nika Nevyrazimov)
     








     

























    Igor Goncharov
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    Fairy-tale ... Good evening















     

     Have a nice evening and a fabulously wonderful mood ... Chmok!

     


     He and Cinderella with his stepmother, he and the old man with the old woman,

    but these words are said in the telephone ear,

    but such notes leave me under a stone -

    waking up, looking for them, sand raking my hands.

    He writes to me: "I miss death, I work badly:

    did not manage to touch the mandatory centner of peas,

    and today I will go back to throw the net.

    How I want to sit next to you! It is desirable to the left. "

    The hearts appear at the bottom of my cup of coffee.

    We, of course, will help both the fish and aunt fairy -

    draw, then revive a whole heap of pictures,

    where he will dance with me.

    Without crystal shoes ...

    (Nika Nevyrazimov)
     








     

























    Igor Goncharov
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    Fairy-tale ... Good evening















     

     Have a nice evening and a fabulously wonderful mood ... Chmok!

     


     He and Cinderella with his stepmother, he and the old man with the old woman,

    but these words are said in the telephone ear,

    but such notes leave me under a stone -

    waking up, looking for them, sand raking my hands.

    He writes to me: "I miss death, I work badly:

    did not manage to touch the mandatory centner of peas,

    and today I will go back to throw the net.

    How I want to sit next to you! It is desirable to the left. "

    The hearts appear at the bottom of my cup of coffee.

    We, of course, will help both the fish and aunt fairy -

    draw, then revive a whole heap of pictures,

    where he will dance with me.

    Without crystal shoes ...

    (Nika Nevyrazimov)
     








     



    Giotto Reproductions























    Igor Goncharov
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    Fairy-tale ... Good evening















     

     Have a nice evening and a fabulously wonderful mood ... Chmok!

     


     He and Cinderella with his stepmother, he and the old man with the old woman,

    but these words are said in the telephone ear,

    but such notes leave me under a stone -

    waking up, looking for them, sand raking my hands.

    He writes to me: "I miss death, I work badly:

    did not manage to touch the mandatory centner of peas,

    and today I will go back to throw the net.

    How I want to sit next to you! It is desirable to the left. "

    The hearts appear at the bottom of my cup of coffee.

    We, of course, will help both the fish and aunt fairy -

    draw, then revive a whole heap of pictures,

    where he will dance with me.

    Without crystal shoes ...

    (Nika Nevyrazimov)
     








     

























    Igor Goncharov
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    Fairy-tale ... Good evening















     

     Have a nice evening and a fabulously wonderful mood ... Chmok!

     


     He and Cinderella with his stepmother, he and the old man with the old woman,

    but these words are said in the telephone ear,

    but such notes leave me under a stone -

    waking up, looking for them, sand raking my hands.

    He writes to me: "I miss death, I work badly:

    did not manage to touch the mandatory centner of peas,

    and today I will go back to throw the net.

    How I want to sit next to you! It is desirable to the left. "

    The hearts appear at the bottom of my cup of coffee.

    We, of course, will help both the fish and aunt fairy -

    draw, then revive a whole heap of pictures,

    where he will dance with me.

    Without crystal shoes ...

    (Nika Nevyrazimov)
     








     

























    Igor Goncharov
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    Fairy-tale ... Good evening















     

     Have a nice evening and a fabulously wonderful mood ... Chmok!

     


     He and Cinderella with his stepmother, he and the old man with the old woman,

    but these words are said in the telephone ear,

    but such notes leave me under a stone -

    waking up, looking for them, sand raking my hands.

    He writes to me: "I miss death, I work badly:

    did not manage to touch the mandatory centner of peas,

    and today I will go back to throw the net.

    How I want to sit next to you! It is desirable to the left. "

    The hearts appear at the bottom of my cup of coffee.

    We, of course, will help both the fish and aunt fairy -

    draw, then revive a whole heap of pictures,

    where he will dance with me.

    Without crystal shoes ...

    (Nika Nevyrazimov)
     








     

























    Igor Goncharov
    Quotation of the Wanda message

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    Fairy-tale ... Good evening















     

     Have a nice evening and a fabulously wonderful mood ... Chmok!

     


     He and Cinderella with his stepmother, he and the old man with the old woman,

    but these words are said in the telephone ear,

    but such notes leave me under a stone -

    waking up, looking for them, sand raking my hands.

    He writes to me: "I miss death, I work badly:

    did not manage to touch the mandatory centner of peas,

    and today I will go back to throw the net.

    How I want to sit next to you! It is desirable to the left. "

    The hearts appear at the bottom of my cup of coffee.

    We, of course, will help both the fish and aunt fairy -

    draw, then revive a whole heap of pictures,

    where he will dance with me.

    Without crystal shoes ...

    (Nika Nevyrazimov)
     








     

























    Igor Goncharov
    paintings for sale

  • The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

    Quote of the message DIVINITI

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The Royal Palace of La Magdalena (Real Palacio de La Magdalena) - a palace located on the peninsula of La Magdalena, in Santander, Spain. The palace was built between 1909-1912 by the project of Spanish architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega, as a summer residence of the royal family.

                   

    The construction of the palace was initiated by the Government of Santander in 1908 in order to ensure the comfortable living of King Alfonso XIII and his family. During the competition, he won the project of the building of architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega. Due to the workers' strike, the building of the palace was completed only in 1912, on August 4, 1913 the king first came to a new residence, which he visited every year until the Spanish revolution of 1931.
    In 1932, by decree of the government of the Second Republic, the building of the palace was transferred to the International University of Menéndez-i-Pelayo, the first rector of which was Ramon Menendez Pidal. During the civil war, the building is empty, in 1945, the summer courses of the restored university are held in the building of the San Rafael Hospital. Only in 1949 the palace of La Magdalena again becomes the venue for summer courses and conferences, the former royal stables are transformed into a student campus.
    In 1982 the royal palace of La Magdalena was declared a historical monument, the building was reconstructed between 1993 and 1995.








    A SOURCE
    Quote of the message DIVINITI

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The Royal Palace of La Magdalena (Real Palacio de La Magdalena) - a palace located on the peninsula of La Magdalena, in Santander, Spain. The palace was built between 1909-1912 by the project of Spanish architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega, as a summer residence of the royal family.

                   

    The construction of the palace was initiated by the Government of Santander in 1908 in order to ensure the comfortable living of King Alfonso XIII and his family. During the competition, he won the project of the building of architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega. Due to the workers' strike, the building of the palace was completed only in 1912, on August 4, 1913 the king first came to a new residence, which he visited every year until the Spanish revolution of 1931.
    In 1932, by decree of the government of the Second Republic, the building of the palace was transferred to the International University of Menéndez-i-Pelayo, the first rector of which was Ramon Menendez Pidal. During the civil war, the building is empty, in 1945, the summer courses of the restored university are held in the building of the San Rafael Hospital. Only in 1949 the palace of La Magdalena again becomes the venue for summer courses and conferences, the former royal stables are transformed into a student campus.
    In 1982 the royal palace of La Magdalena was declared a historical monument, the building was reconstructed between 1993 and 1995.








    A SOURCE
    Quote of the message DIVINITI

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The Royal Palace of La Magdalena (Real Palacio de La Magdalena) - a palace located on the peninsula of La Magdalena, in Santander, Spain. The palace was built between 1909-1912 by the project of Spanish architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega, as a summer residence of the royal family.

                   

    The construction of the palace was initiated by the Government of Santander in 1908 in order to ensure the comfortable living of King Alfonso XIII and his family. During the competition, he won the project of the building of architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega. Due to the workers' strike, the building of the palace was completed only in 1912, on August 4, 1913 the king first came to a new residence, which he visited every year until the Spanish revolution of 1931.
    In 1932, by decree of the government of the Second Republic, the building of the palace was transferred to the International University of Menéndez-i-Pelayo, the first rector of which was Ramon Menendez Pidal. During the civil war, the building is empty, in 1945, the summer courses of the restored university are held in the building of the San Rafael Hospital. Only in 1949 the palace of La Magdalena again becomes the venue for summer courses and conferences, the former royal stables are transformed into a student campus.
    In 1982 the royal palace of La Magdalena was declared a historical monument, the building was reconstructed between 1993 and 1995.








    A SOURCE
    Quote of the message DIVINITI

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The Royal Palace of La Magdalena (Real Palacio de La Magdalena) - a palace located on the peninsula of La Magdalena, in Santander, Spain. The palace was built between 1909-1912 by the project of Spanish architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega, as a summer residence of the royal family.

                   

    The construction of the palace was initiated by the Government of Santander in 1908 in order to ensure the comfortable living of King Alfonso XIII and his family. During the competition, he won the project of the building of architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega. Due to the workers' strike, the building of the palace was completed only in 1912, on August 4, 1913 the king first came to a new residence, which he visited every year until the Spanish revolution of 1931.
    In 1932, by decree of the government of the Second Republic, the building of the palace was transferred to the International University of Menéndez-i-Pelayo, the first rector of which was Ramon Menendez Pidal. During the civil war, the building is empty, in 1945, the summer courses of the restored university are held in the building of the San Rafael Hospital. Only in 1949 the palace of La Magdalena again becomes the venue for summer courses and conferences, the former royal stables are transformed into a student campus.
    In 1982 the royal palace of La Magdalena was declared a historical monument, the building was reconstructed between 1993 and 1995.








    A SOURCE
    Quote of the message DIVINITI

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The Royal Palace of La Magdalena (Real Palacio de La Magdalena) - a palace located on the peninsula of La Magdalena, in Santander, Spain. The palace was built between 1909-1912 by the project of Spanish architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega, as a summer residence of the royal family.

                   

    The construction of the palace was initiated by the Government of Santander in 1908 in order to ensure the comfortable living of King Alfonso XIII and his family. During the competition, he won the project of the building of architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega. Due to the workers' strike, the building of the palace was completed only in 1912, on August 4, 1913 the king first came to a new residence, which he visited every year until the Spanish revolution of 1931.
    In 1932, by decree of the government of the Second Republic, the building of the palace was transferred to the International University of Menéndez-i-Pelayo, the first rector of which was Ramon Menendez Pidal. During the civil war, the building is empty, in 1945, the summer courses of the restored university are held in the building of the San Rafael Hospital. Only in 1949 the palace of La Magdalena again becomes the venue for summer courses and conferences, the former royal stables are transformed into a student campus.
    In 1982 the royal palace of La Magdalena was declared a historical monument, the building was reconstructed between 1993 and 1995.








    A SOURCE
    Quote of the message DIVINITI

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The Royal Palace of La Magdalena (Real Palacio de La Magdalena) - a palace located on the peninsula of La Magdalena, in Santander, Spain. The palace was built between 1909-1912 by the project of Spanish architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega, as a summer residence of the royal family.

                   

    The construction of the palace was initiated by the Government of Santander in 1908 in order to ensure the comfortable living of King Alfonso XIII and his family. During the competition, he won the project of the building of architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega. Due to the workers' strike, the building of the palace was completed only in 1912, on August 4, 1913 the king first came to a new residence, which he visited every year until the Spanish revolution of 1931.
    In 1932, by decree of the government of the Second Republic, the building of the palace was transferred to the International University of Menéndez-i-Pelayo, the first rector of which was Ramon Menendez Pidal. During the civil war, the building is empty, in 1945, the summer courses of the restored university are held in the building of the San Rafael Hospital. Only in 1949 the palace of La Magdalena again becomes the venue for summer courses and conferences, the former royal stables are transformed into a student campus.
    In 1982 the royal palace of La Magdalena was declared a historical monument, the building was reconstructed between 1993 and 1995.








    A SOURCE
    Quote of the message DIVINITI

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The Royal Palace of La Magdalena (Real Palacio de La Magdalena) - a palace located on the peninsula of La Magdalena, in Santander, Spain. The palace was built between 1909-1912 by the project of Spanish architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega, as a summer residence of the royal family.

                   

    The construction of the palace was initiated by the Government of Santander in 1908 in order to ensure the comfortable living of King Alfonso XIII and his family. During the competition, he won the project of the building of architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega. Due to the workers' strike, the building of the palace was completed only in 1912, on August 4, 1913 the king first came to a new residence, which he visited every year until the Spanish revolution of 1931.
    In 1932, by decree of the government of the Second Republic, the building of the palace was transferred to the International University of Menéndez-i-Pelayo, the first rector of which was Ramon Menendez Pidal. During the civil war, the building is empty, in 1945, the summer courses of the restored university are held in the building of the San Rafael Hospital. Only in 1949 the palace of La Magdalena again becomes the venue for summer courses and conferences, the former Albert Bierstadt paintings for sale

    royal stables are transformed into a student campus.
    In 1982 the royal palace of La Magdalena was declared a historical monument, the building was reconstructed between 1993 and 1995.








    A SOURCE
    Quote of the message DIVINITI

    Read the fullV your quote or community!

    The Royal Palace of La Magdalena, Spain

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The Royal Palace of La Magdalena (Real Palacio de La Magdalena) - a palace located on the peninsula of La Magdalena, in Santander, Spain. The palace was built between 1909-1912 by the project of Spanish architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega, as a summer residence of the royal family.

                   

    The construction of the palace was initiated by the Government of Santander in 1908 in order to ensure the comfortable living of King Alfonso XIII and his family. During the competition, he won the project of the building of architects Javier Gonzalez-Riancho and Gonzalo Vega. Due to the workers' strike, the building of the palace was completed only in 1912, on August 4, 1913 the king first came to a new residence, which he visited every year until the Spanish revolution of 1931.
    In 1932, by decree of the government of the Second Republic, the building of the palace was transferred to the International University of Menéndez-i-Pelayo, the first rector of which was Ramon Menendez Pidal. During the civil war, the building is empty, in 1945, the summer courses of the restored university are held in the building of the San Rafael Hospital. Only in 1949 the palace of La Magdalena again becomes the venue for summer courses and conferences, the former royal stables are transformed into a student campus.
    In 1982 the royal palace of La Magdalena was declared a historical monument, the building was reconstructed between 1993 and 1995.








    A SOURCE
    art for sale