Lyrics Олександр Довженко - Мати

ALEXANDER DOVZHENKO
HAVE
Not for the sake of tears, and despair, and sorrow, and not as a sign of bitter curse, they are already cursed and so all in the world, for the glory of our family is written in the name of love about this high death.
And although we were destined for many unforgettable losses, although it would be easier for our eyes to read something gentle and sweet among the thunder, let's read about mother Maria Stoyan.
Who among the corpses of the enemy runs through the village, which is already burning?
Who is moaning while running? Whose heart is pounding in his chest as if he wants to jump forward?
This is Vasily with a machine gun and bombs, Maria Stoyanykha's son.
Who is dead hanging around the house under the sky?
This is his mother.
Vasily runs, all wet from the long battle, running in great anxiety. How he fought in front of his native village! He was a scout, destroyed points, blew up a bunker with a grenade, which was once his uncle's house. Chased the enemy. Vasily ran the whole village, everything that was once called a village. Two hundred ovens, burned gardens, skulls, pits and many dead enemies in the swamp and blood.
"Mom, where are you?" This is me, Vasily, alive! Ivan was killed, mother, and I'm alive ... I killed them, mother, about two hundred ... Where are you? ..
Vasily ran to the yard. Here was a yard under the mountain.
- Mom, my mother, where are you? My dear, why don't you meet me? Why can't I hear your quiet voice? Where are you, dove, my gray mother?
Vasily stopped near the house, but there is no house. Vasily in the yard - there is no yard. In the garden - there is no garden. Only one old pear, and on the mother pear.
O quiet horror ... O unforgettable sorrow ...
When she was still alive and the house was all over the village, in the winter in a fierce blizzard, at midnight one day something started knocking on the door.
"Who's here?"
- Aunt, let us die ...
"What are you, little pigeons, where are you from?"
- We are Russian, aunt. We are our own. Pilots! We fell.
- Lord, sons, go dead. I'll close the door ... Didn't anyone see? It is full of Germans.
Two cripples entered the house, embracing. They fell down, fell asleep instantly and slept for a day and a half. I thought they were dead.
She was already washing their feet with hot water, and she drowned them roughly, warmed them three times a day - they were asleep. And she cried night and day, remembering her sons Ivan and Vasily. Who will feed them, who will warm them in the hour of trouble? Where they are? Maybe they are already lying somewhere in the field, like glass, or hanging on the gallows in German captivity and the crow is biting their eyes in the cold. And no one will look anymore, and will not ask, will not cry! .. So many deaths around. Children, children ...
Stepan Pshenitsyn and Kostya Ryabov were both from the Urals. They belonged to the breed of n youth, which for many centuries will be the subject of study and deep astonishment of historians of the great tragedy of mankind. Unshaven, scorched by frost, wind, and the fierce adventures of life, they groaned menacingly in their sleep and breathed heavily. The war worried their souls in a dream, the war ... They were simple Ural young men, moderately educated, working Komsomol members from good working families. They did not want to go to war, but they did not cry or hide from it according to good Russian custom. They went to the front as volunteers to get to the enemy as soon as possible and destroy him. They became pilots quickly and as simply and easily as they could become submariners or snipers. Nature has endowed them all to a good extent. And they themselves were good.
- At first, mother, we spent a long time bombarding Fritz with heavy bombs, and then we were assigned to cultural and educational work. We didn't want, however, well it is necessary, - the order.
- And what kind of work is it? Stoyanykha asked when one evening they talked quietly for a long time in a dark hut.
- We scattered leaflets over Ukraine, - Pshenitsyn said. - That people knew the truth about war.
"Is that you?" "Oh, you're doing a great job, my little pigeons," sighed Stoyanykha. The great work is good news in captivity. But the darkness is all around, and the heads of people are so clogged with cunning fascist lies that it is a pity to live. As if everything in the world is over, think ...
And here for the first time, listening to simple mother's words on the enslaved earth, I will feel