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Автор Alexey Danilov

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Автор Alexey Danilov

112 страниц
1 час
27 окт. 2018 г.


The author independently translates his works for foreign readers from Russian into English.
The reader is given the opportunity to get acquainted with the evolution of the author as a translator, and even to be outraged about this.

27 окт. 2018 г.

Об авторе

20+ years I write poetry. I'm 40+. I live in Belarus.Think the truth. Tell the truth. Do the truth. And then the truth will come.You can express your attitude to the work of the author, as well as provide support, on the page of DonatePay ( https://new.donatepay.ru/@DonatForAlexey ) or Patreon.___________________________________________________________________________20+ лет пишу стихи. Сейчас пишу прозу. Мне 40+. Я живу в Беларуси.Думай правду. Говори правду. Делай правду. И тогда правда придет.Выразить свое отношение к творчеству автора, а также оказать поддержку, Вы можете на странице DonatePay ( https://new.donatepay.ru/@DonatForAlexey) или на Patreon.

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Birth - Alexey Danilov

Alexey Danilov



Capital punishment

I have no choice


The soldier


Tale of an honest boy

The bright Tomorrow

Not mine

You are still summer

Revenge of the naked king

Flag in the armoire

A blanket

Own way

Technical Inspection

Head and Ass



Who has the soul of a slave, he is not happy to be free

Loneliness theorem

Call-up to the crematory


Roar of soul

Another's role

I was lay on the beach

What is propaganda

Dead tree


Belly dance

Mr. P

We're strangers here

The descendants of snitches

The sneer of vanilla sky



Route 19

Toopichok and aviator

Capital punishment

Capital punishment.

The highest degree of power.

Duke among slaves,

His title is his armor.

He is so high above the ground,

That does not even hear.

Verdict is not a musical sound

And does not make the soul clear.

Clinging to the sky

The duke is afraid to break down.

Above only the sun,

Only God decides whom to burn.

Fear is ruled the duke,

Clutching the sky he is ready to kill.

He is blind and does not read the book,

The highest measure is his last hill.

The Duke signs the sentence,

The more power the easier it is to kill.

But this is not his license,

This is God's skill.

Duke - the first man after God,

But he sits too high.

The highest measure is its result,

But no one will cry.


I have no choice

I have no choice,

I lost rejoice,

A sneaky man stole my personal voice.

Still at school

I was not cool.

Teachers taught me how to be fool.

Class teacher considered me a lazy boy,

She said that I would become nightman envoy.

The teacher did not implement his plan,

Because he did not make me a man.

From school I escaped to technical school,

I was shown how to use a different tool.

I was shown how to use my hands and my head.

I started reading books on a pot and in bed.

I read in the hospital and in the rest room.

It was in the army in the afternoon.

But a drunken military punch me on the head.

I'm not a composer. I am now a poet.

I worked as a builder to buy a instrument.

I worked as an electrician not to starve to death.

For many years I collected money for a guitar.

But my music did not make me a star.

I dreamed, but someone changed my plan.

You probably dandled. it's a sneaky man.

He wanted to give me military boots.

To make me a weapon and cut off my roots.

I refused to be a weapon and now without income.

I'm lost. I'm not here. Here remained my phantom.



At pressure of drawing lines

The secret is born.

Exposing the black and white

In paper portrait look it from.

The stubborn digital process

Introduced it there.

Pencil is moved by art impress,

Live! nothing to compare.


The soldier

The soldier is your son,

The soldier is your brother,

Defender with a gun.

But now in mourning mother.

He was a one for all,

With honor at the post.

And hated everyone,

In whom the death ghost.

He did not die in battle,

And did not fight for peace.

Defended his dignity,

To spite the enemies.

Your son, your friend, your brother

Resisted moral mud.

Defender began smother,

The soldiers became brute.

He will not become father

He was alone and gone.

Everyone has mother

But they are not all stone.

And someone's mothers -fathers

Conceal the sinners names.

For their prodigal, lost babies

The army is a sinful game.

One form, one man and cattle.

Manure and just a man.

He did not die in battle,

But he cut short began.

Dung forces attack us.

Sanity fell to zero.

Bastards are given leave!

Who became shit - a hero!

The soldier is your son,

Your brother and your friend,

Remember! Machine gun

Serves thieves' president!



A long time ago was a fly.

Lord of all the flies on earth.

He was a hairy and fat-liar liar.

Who knows how this story is unearthed.

There were many flies in the kingdom,

The spirit of the flies was strong.

Therefore, the Lord knew wisdom,

And avoided eating shit for long.

He ate Fruit, drank wine and jelly.

But the people ate shit and shit blow.

Lord did not want to be smelly.

I will not say, It was too long time ago.

The king loved cakes and custards.

Every day many flies performed caprice.

Food flowed like continuous musters.

And nothing disturbed the royal peace.

Once the king took a solemn festive fly parade.

The king loved parades and was unheard of glad.

In front of him were a frightening cascade.

And one suddenly asked: "Who put crown on his head?

Why does he have no shit on his face?

And from the cream

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