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***
Mother's Day came up with, of course, is not in vain.
Without them there would be desolate flowering ground.
But we want to slightly soften the formality,
Let it be a little pompous home a reality.
Congratulations all mothers, aunts, grandmothers
And dear grandmother. Favorite, Happy Mom!
* * *
Why do I need a memory
In which only the pain and tears?
Why do I need this kind of memory,
Where it crosses over birch cry?
Why - if it brings sorrow,
If, in the memory, the mother cries at night? ..
She cries over son's bed empty,
Flowing down his cheek a tear,
Sliding on the early gray hair braids,
Silver strands.
Mother remembers everything: the son grew up,
I fell in love, husband,
The time has come - the army has become ...
Thus, it was necessary -
Russia called! ..
But why...
Why funerals son come?!.
And again - at night,
The bed, alone,
Mom would cry soldier
That ... that was not able to become a grandmother.
* * *
The cabin of old, roadside,
I stopped for the night,
In the corner, a lamp lit
Brave army, portrait,
A old woman sitting at the table,
What son is waiting for a long time,
Cricket, behind the stove, barely audible,
She sings a sad song ...
But still, she did not believe,
that his son was killed - that's just a dream -
Not locked at night, doors,
And suddenly come today, he ...
And the hostess a traveler happy
Bread and salt on the table, she submits,
Heat up the bathhouse, with the spirit of the garden,
Kvas popotchuet your heart's content.
It seems that as well as his son,
Hello somewhere, someone's mother,
Now, we just need only force
A mother, her son knows how to wait ...
* * *
The shadows on the walls, candles, soft light,
Quiet plate sings minuet ...
House old, Suburb,
On the way out the old lady - she waits for her son.
She say: - Your son is nicely served,
Pal, a heroic death -
Sniper soldier killed ...
But, I do not believe the mother,
-
Is was there a war?!.
And why should I posthumous Order? ...
He hears the creak on the threshold,
Hastening to the road it
But, on the outskirts,
Sadly moon shines ...
And again, -
The year that, without sleep,
Where the shadows on the walls,
Soft light of candles,
Where the plate gently sings the minuet,
Mother will sit until the morning,
She believes: Her son is alive,
While the memory of his son alive ...
* * *
On the platform of the old cross,
On war leaving the car,
It seemed that she was his son,
Once again, escorted to the front.
The young, beardless, brave,
Under the Charter of haircut - "a zero"
Those war songs, the guitar,
Sang today, SWAT and riot police,
And by the sound of wheels tier
How to spell the holy prayers,
Old women of the crying on the platform:
-
Come back, son, go home! ..
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