Lyrics Стих.Бродский - Осенний крик ястреба

Northwest wind raises it above
gray, lilac, crimson, scarlet
Connecticut Valley. He already
does not see the tasty promenade
chickens in the yard dilapidated
farm, gopher on the border.

On the air flow spread out, alone,
all he sees is the slope of the sloping
the hills and the silver of the river,
curling like a living blade,
steel in the notches of rolls,
bead-like towns

New England. Fallen to zero
thermometers - like lars in a niche;
get cold, curbing a fire
leaves, church spiers. But for
hawk it's not a church. Above
best thoughts of parishioners

it soars in the blue ocean, closing its beak,
with pressed to the stomach
- claws in a fist, like fingers -
feeling each feather blowing
bottom, flashing in response eye
the berry, keeping to the South,

to Rio Grande, to the delta, to the steaming crowd
beeches hiding in powerful foam
herbs whose blades are sharp,
nest of broken shells
in scarlet speck, smell, shadow
brother or sister

The heart overgrown with flesh, fluff, feather, wing,
beating with trembling frequency,
scissors like a scissor
own driven by heat
autumn blue, its the same
increasing by

barely visible brown spots,
point moving over the top
ate; due to emptiness in the face
a child standing at the window
couples left the car,
women on the porch.

But the upstream raises it
Higher and higher. In the abdominal feathers
sting cold. Looking down
he sees that the horizon has faded,
he sees as the thirteen first
states he sees: of

pipes smoke rises. But just the number
pipe prompts lonely
a bird like she rose.
Ek where it brought me!
He feels mixed with anxiety.
pride. Rolling over

wing, he falls down. But the elastic layer
the air returns him to the sky
in a colorless ice surface.
In the yellow pupil arises evil
shine. That is, a cross between anger
with horror. He again

is overthrown. But as a wall - a ball,
like the fall of a sinner - again in faith,
pushes him back.
Its that still hot!
To hell with that. All the above. In the ionosphere.
In an astronomically objective hell

birds, where there is no oxygen,
where, instead of millet - the groats of the distant
stars What for two-legged heights,
then for the birds the opposite.
Not 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 looks like a screech of erinians,
breaks out and flies out
mechanical, unbearable sound,
the sound of steel stuck into aluminum;
mechanical because not

intended for no one’s ears:
human, breaking a birch
squirrel, yapping fox,
small field mice;
so tears cannot be cast
to anyone. Only dogs

bully muzzle. Piercing, sharp cry
worse terrible re-sharp
diamond cutting glass,
crosses the sky. And the world for a moment
as if starting from a cut.
For up there, it's warm

burns the space like here below
burns black hand
without gloves. We are exclaiming, "
there! "we see a tear at the top
hawk, plus spider web, sound
inherent, fine waves,

scattering across the sky where
there is no echo where it smells apotheosis
sound, especially in October.
And in this lace, akin to a star,
flashing, frost-bound,
hoar frost in silver

trimmed feathers, the bird swims into the zenith,
in ultramarine. We see through binoculars from here
pearl, sparkling detail.
We hear: something rings at the top