Small Village Poem by Liza Sud

I returned to my small village.
Same-blue depths of the river, line,
don't expect me to have a visit,
Only Lada - waits with a gun.

Near the falcon was lying in grass,
The he shines in his bloody feathers,
My devotee Dog in the loop hangs,
And ide as before death thrills.

How many feasts there were promised -
Loaf from bakery, firewood,
Yes, with some tea, under the birches,
in protected places - mushrooms.

And the gardens in white May foam bloom,
With a rainbow after a storm,
And the dew so ripe with fondness
And yourself - you, my dear, you.

How many to me were promised,
What a miracle-colored dreams,
How many of universes,
How many of words terrible:

Crawl, arrive, I'll fight off, come here,
And I flied on the wings of love,
bringing gifts for the whole region,
But came only - to my own - shooting down.