Текст песни Александр Твардовский - По дороге на Берлин

DRIVING TO BERLIN
On the way to Berlin
Sweeps gray fluff quilts.
Umolkshih wire lines
Branches drenched linden
Pooh quilts Povile as frost,
Adhered on the sides of cars.
And the wheels of guns, kitchens
Mud and snow interfere with fluff.
And falls on the overcoat
On the down wet snowstorm ...
Dull climate abroad,
A stranger to the edge of red brick,
But the war itself,
The earth trembles as usual,
Crunchy gravel tile
Otryahaya from the roofs off ...
Mother Russia, we are halfway around the world
We have passed your wheels,
Leaving behind somewhere
Thy rivers Razdolny reach.
A long time for baggage
At the edge of a stranger dragged behind
The white color of your birch
And the road has come to naught.
With Volga, with ancient Moscow
How far are you today!
Between us and you -
Three not our language.
Late day stands not Russian
Doghouse on side.
Tile rubble crisp
Getting wet in a pool under the wall.
Everywhere inscriptions, marks,
Arrows, signs, icons,
Ring of wire mesh,
Fences, doors, cell -
All purpose longing for ...
Mother Earth is our own,
In the days of trouble and in the days of victories
No you brighter and more beautiful
And no heart desires.
Thinking about a soldier
Not predict the future,
Even to go to the grave of the sister
Better, it seems to you.
And just a mile to the house,
Before you reach the living,
Said in those regions:
- Hello, my native land!
Warrior thy servant of the people,
With honor can report:
He fought four years,
He returned from a hike
And now she wants to live.
He performed the duty of the glory
Fighting your banners.
Who else has the right to
So love you like him!
Day and night at the fights taking turns,
In the month of cap without removing,
Your Warrior, defender-son,
It was in a hurry to see you, my dear,
On the way to Berlin ...
On the way neminuchey
Pooh quilts swirling cloud.
Cities burnt scrap
Smell singed pen.
And the rumble of cannon fire
To the east, out of the darkness and stench,
As of the hellish gates,
It flows along the highway people.
Shocked, scorched,
All blood, mingled,
Bitter, pack, people on foot ...
East - one route.
To the east, through the smoke and soot,
From one prison deaf
Home is Europe.
Pooh quilts over her blizzard.
And Russian soldier
Brother of the French, the British brother,
Brother Pole and everything
With friendship if guilty
But hearty look.
On an obscure crossroads
For a moment, a counter -
Yourself drawn to the hair
Hand dumb girls.
And from the speeches of smiles
Filled with paint myself soldiers:
Here Europe, and thanks
All in Russian say.
He stands, the liberator,
Cap with a star on its side.
I say, well, to help amateur
I about that simple.
They say that such service is ours,
Other flags not to offend ...
- Hey, where are you, mother?
- And back then, - home, son.
In Chuzhinov, far away in the way,
The motley assemblage of the human
Suddenly the words their native language,
Grandma in a fur coat, with Pososhkov.
Old age is like, but not senility
In the knapsack harnessed.
For traveling crosswise
All braided shawl.
I greeted him and stood up,
Fellow-soldier to match,
Rustic, simple
Our hard worker mother.
Holy mother of eternal forces,
Of unknown mothers
That labor is not iznosimy
And in any trouble her;
What fate, repeated
On the ground, a hundred times in a row,
And grow in love sleepless,
And we lose a soldier;
And live, and do not lay down their arms,
Not close their eyes,
Kohl need more, perhaps,
Grandchildren instead of sons.
Mother alone in a foreign land somewhere!
- How far is it to court?
- Prior to the court? Yard, then no,
But she had because of the Dnieper ...
Wait, guys, no good,
To that way with Pososhkov
Walking home from abroad
Mother of a soldier on foot.
No, my dear, in order
Let us do not bother.
First things first horse
The full harness gets.
Get your equipment,
Legs ukroy mat.
And you cow
At the imparted sheep.
On their way with a mug of tea
Yes bucket reserve,
Perinki yes, yes on