Рефлексия повседневности
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Самое интересное, что П. Краснова, после подавления восстания Керенского-Краснова, добрые большевики отпустили под честное слово не воевать против них. Краснов уехал на Дон и слово офицера моментально нарушил. Вчера была годовщина - 16 января 1947 года фашистских упырей повесили.
#краснов #репрессии
#краснов #репрессии
Как вы считаете, что скорее случится:
1. Болтовня о традиционных ценностях сблизит Путина и Трампа
2. Капиталистическая конкуренция разделит Путина и Трампа ещё сильнее
Ссылка на новость.
#пропаганда #дугин #трамп
1. Болтовня о традиционных ценностях сблизит Путина и Трампа
2. Капиталистическая конкуренция разделит Путина и Трампа ещё сильнее
Ссылка на новость.
#пропаганда #дугин #трамп
Winter
The world's enshrouded by the storm's unending, swirling trance,
Beyond the gale's thick veil — does life persist or wilt in death?
Or must we dwell inside this sphere of white, where time suspends,
Till humankind’s last breath is claimed by winter's cold embrace?
How sweet to watch the weather's rage through frosted window’s glow —
Inside, it's warm and quiet reign; beyond — Antarctic's snow.
There's Robert Scott, he bears his quest to his Mount Doom's dire height,
He’s not yet lost — he's struggling fate. His will drives him to fight!
A lucent phoenix dancing ’midst the tempest’s frenzied maze,
He dies, then rises from his ashes, and bursts through blizzard’s blaze.
The play’s third act catharsis: death comes through the spectral haze —
White winds fan flames of chaos; sparks erupt in blinding rays!
The old world fades like ripples on a mirrored, frozen lake —
Forgotten. Through the void — a word arises on blank page,
The shapes emerge and motion wakes where silence starts to break,
Through mortal end, the world's reborn to play spring’s script on stage!
#стихи
The world's enshrouded by the storm's unending, swirling trance,
Beyond the gale's thick veil — does life persist or wilt in death?
Or must we dwell inside this sphere of white, where time suspends,
Till humankind’s last breath is claimed by winter's cold embrace?
How sweet to watch the weather's rage through frosted window’s glow —
Inside, it's warm and quiet reign; beyond — Antarctic's snow.
There's Robert Scott, he bears his quest to his Mount Doom's dire height,
He’s not yet lost — he's struggling fate. His will drives him to fight!
A lucent phoenix dancing ’midst the tempest’s frenzied maze,
He dies, then rises from his ashes, and bursts through blizzard’s blaze.
The play’s third act catharsis: death comes through the spectral haze —
White winds fan flames of chaos; sparks erupt in blinding rays!
The old world fades like ripples on a mirrored, frozen lake —
Forgotten. Through the void — a word arises on blank page,
The shapes emerge and motion wakes where silence starts to break,
Through mortal end, the world's reborn to play spring’s script on stage!
#стихи
Ouroboros
Ring-road’s Ouroboros's endless spin,
It gulps revolts, submission, and it's starting
To devour silence, meetings, love, and parting,
Its jaws grind equally both sanctity and sin.
It gulps the miles of doubts, and morning star ―
A caged sky's prisoner, is burned by the dawn,
Its ash of failure waiting for respawn
And new day's drama from the very start.
It has absorbed the lightning and the dark,
The calm, the chaos, rise and fall's grim story ―
All turn to dust, no triumph, no vain glory,
All lie in shadows of the Zero Mark.
The Walls, the Theatre, statues ― all dissolved,
And all these buyers, clerks, the crowned, the nameless,
Their hopeless dream is to forget their sameness,
We're river's-bottom silt, raised with the jolt.
It all was fleeting, never truly real,
Will fade and rise again like dust in motion:
A blend of love and curses, raw emotion,
While Ouroboros spins the endless wheel.
#стихи
Ring-road’s Ouroboros's endless spin,
It gulps revolts, submission, and it's starting
To devour silence, meetings, love, and parting,
Its jaws grind equally both sanctity and sin.
It gulps the miles of doubts, and morning star ―
A caged sky's prisoner, is burned by the dawn,
Its ash of failure waiting for respawn
And new day's drama from the very start.
It has absorbed the lightning and the dark,
The calm, the chaos, rise and fall's grim story ―
All turn to dust, no triumph, no vain glory,
All lie in shadows of the Zero Mark.
The Walls, the Theatre, statues ― all dissolved,
And all these buyers, clerks, the crowned, the nameless,
Their hopeless dream is to forget their sameness,
We're river's-bottom silt, raised with the jolt.
It all was fleeting, never truly real,
Will fade and rise again like dust in motion:
A blend of love and curses, raw emotion,
While Ouroboros spins the endless wheel.
#стихи
No drafts
The world's a chessboard, flat and wide,
No "high" or "low" ― those terms denied.
On black, you're slain, erased from sight,
On white, I breathe beneath the light.
No hope remains to breach the line,
And reach the final row, be crowned ―
Our humble board, a frail design,
There's not much space, but Fates around.
Our choice is poor: a pawn’s strict track,
A hand above pulls every thread.
Free will — a leash, there's no way back —
We march as strings steer where we tread.
The route’s pre-set, mapped dot-to-dot,
Yet free pawns crowd, await the horn,
They're trapped by role, inspired in thought —
They chase the game they never won.
Time slips like sand through fisted hands,
A bleeding wound no stitch can close,
What once was ash now feeds the land,
And embers bloom where none once rose.
No life, no love, no light survives,
Two shades in smoke where bullets soar.
Through battle’s roar, the clock revives,
And dawn breaks on this endless war.
Better in jungles, dusk’s embrace,
Than graves dug by another’s spite.
No heaven’s glow — just hell’s grim face —
They trade our honor for their fight.
... The slain were hauled to final prayers,
In craters, corpses find their bed.
We drink, we laugh ― what else remains?
Life writes in stone ― no drafts instead.
#стихи
The world's a chessboard, flat and wide,
No "high" or "low" ― those terms denied.
On black, you're slain, erased from sight,
On white, I breathe beneath the light.
No hope remains to breach the line,
And reach the final row, be crowned ―
Our humble board, a frail design,
There's not much space, but Fates around.
Our choice is poor: a pawn’s strict track,
A hand above pulls every thread.
Free will — a leash, there's no way back —
We march as strings steer where we tread.
The route’s pre-set, mapped dot-to-dot,
Yet free pawns crowd, await the horn,
They're trapped by role, inspired in thought —
They chase the game they never won.
Time slips like sand through fisted hands,
A bleeding wound no stitch can close,
What once was ash now feeds the land,
And embers bloom where none once rose.
No life, no love, no light survives,
Two shades in smoke where bullets soar.
Through battle’s roar, the clock revives,
And dawn breaks on this endless war.
Better in jungles, dusk’s embrace,
Than graves dug by another’s spite.
No heaven’s glow — just hell’s grim face —
They trade our honor for their fight.
... The slain were hauled to final prayers,
In craters, corpses find their bed.
We drink, we laugh ― what else remains?
Life writes in stone ― no drafts instead.
#стихи