Текст песни Владимир Маслаков - И.Бродский. Осенний крик ястреба

Northwest wind raises it above
gray, purple, crimson, scarlet
Connecticut Valley. He already
doesn't see a tidy promenade
chickens in a dilapidated yard
farm, ground squirrel on the boundary.

On the air flow flattened, lonely,
all he sees is a ridge of slopes
hills and silver rivers,
curling like a living blade,
steel in the notches of rifts,
bead-like towns

New England. Fallen to zero
thermometers - like laras in a niche;
get cold, curbing the fire
leaves, spiers of churches. But for
hawks, these are not churches. Higher
the best thoughts of the parishioners

he soars in the blue ocean, closing his beak,
with the plus to the stomach
- claws into a fist, like fingers -
smelling with every feather
below, sparkling in response to the eye
berry, holding south,

to the Rio Grande, in the delta, in a steaming crowd
beech hiding in powerful foam
herbs whose blades are sharp
broken nest
scarlet speck, smell, shadows
brother or sister.

A heart overgrown with flesh, down, feather, wing,
trembling with frequency
like she’s cutting with scissors,
driven by heat
autumn blue, her
increasing due

barely visible brown spot
point rolling over the top
ate; due to emptiness in the face
a child standing still by the window
couples getting out of the car,
women on the porch.

But its upward current rises
Higher and higher. In abdominal feathers
nips cold. Looking down
he sees that the horizon has faded,
he sees as though thirteen first
states, he sees: from

pipes smoke rises. But just the number
pipes tells the lonely
bird as she rose.

Ek where I brought!

He feels mixed with anxiety.
pride. Turned over to

wing, he falls down. But the elastic layer
his air returns to the sky,
in the colorless ice surface.

In the yellow pupil arises evil
shine. That is, a mixture of anger
with fear. He again
overthrows. But like a wall - a ball,
like the fall of a sinner - again in faith,
pushes him back.

Him who is still hot!

What the hell. All higher. Into the ionosphere.

In an astronomically objective hell

birds lacking oxygen
where instead of millet there is distant groats
stars. What for two-legged heights,
then for birds the opposite.

Not in the cerebellum, but in the sacs of the lungs
he guesses: do not be saved.

And then he screams. From bent like a hook
a beak that resembles the squeal of Erinius,
breaks out and flies out
mechanical, unbearable sound,
the sound of steel sinking into aluminum;
mechanical, because not

intended for no one's ears:
human tearing off a birch
squirrels yapping fox,
small field mice;
so tears cannot be cast
to nobody. Dogs only

face up. A piercing, sharp cry
worse, more terrible than re-sharp
glass cutting diamond
crosses the sky. And the world for a moment
as if trembles from a cut.

For there above is warm

burns the space, as here below
burns a black hand fence
without a glove. We shouting out
there! "see a tear at the top
hawks, plus cobwebs, sound
inherent in small waves,

scatter around the sky where
there is no echo where it smells of apotheosis
sound, especially in October.

And in this lace, akin to a star,
sparkling, chained by frost,
hoarfrost, in silver,

downy feathers, the bird is swimming at its zenith,
in ultramarine. We see binoculars from here
pearl, sparkling detail.

We hear something above rings
like breaking dishes
like a family crystal

whose fragments, however, do not hurt, but
melt in the palm of your hand. And for a moment
again you distinguish circles, eyes,
fan, rainbow spot
dots, brackets, links,
spikelets, hairs -

former free feather pattern,
a card that has become a handful of brisk
cereal flying on a hillside.

And catching their fingers, kids
runs out in colorful jackets
and screams in English "Winter, winter!"

1975