Leonid Aronzon: The Selection of V.Aronzon, brother of poet. Translated by Richard McKane

aвтор визуальной работы - L.A.

Translated by Richard McKane


To my wife

Oh, do not forget the summer flights
on sleepy birds within the garden's bounds,
where the maple leaf, looped and looped
was sailing and falling down...
Oh, August, oh my final month,
preserve in tinsel herbariums
that garden, leaf, those birds and twilight
while reading the chronicle of constellations.

There, sheltered by autumn's despair,
I watched the ghostly flight of the dragonflies,
and the garden throbbed with stray wasps,
trembled, cried and ravished.
I accepted you as a bent twig,
and realised that there was a woman hidden
in the heavy rain, ah, those inventions,
metamorphoses: a maple and a bird!
Is the garden not a dream? But remember, that
towards autumn, far from the gloomy capital,
the maple leaf, sent round the world,
flies, but what if it's not a leaf, but a bird?

There is the presence of mirrors in the autumn,
their illusory volume is in the autumn air,
when the sky is dull and the river too,
and the first ice, scraping the banks
carries past the motionless shadows of birds;
when, going down the steps to the river,
I see, separated by glass,
the islands, the long Tsar’s palace,
then Okhta, where tugboats and the burdock are.
I look around and all is still in half-light,
still a fishing artel moves the heavy oar,
and the crumpled leaf smelling of floodwater
still foamingly rages by the feet.
5 January 1964

Russia, homeland, language,
the distant twilight of nature,
open land, train cars:
I have grasped this homeland,
where by habit
the grass and trees are close to me like love.
Russia, into your strongholds –
the one-storeyed villages –
I ran headlong from the cities
into the season of prospecting and the fishing season,
and slept, falling down by the side of the road,
like a leaf on a spider's net.

There was the union of soul with earth,
and this alliance was as heavy rains, rains...
Birds soared above me
not shaking the wondrous twilight.
The soul was like a guide
over this twilight and the world.

O yellow light, how you penetrated
the ceiling lights of streets and flats.
O light of despair, there's fear again
over the age in face of loss,
and the age comes to enroll
its contemporaries to soldiers.

The weak man fights,
dropping small feathers.
The twentieth century is the last epoch,
the wreath of crazy creation.
1961 (?)


When you close your eyes – there are the fine houses
of some seaside place:
a large wood and wide windows,
an iced fountain, like a morning candlestick,
and next to the house, getting out into the frost
(where the air of the day is more oxygen-starved than insomnia),
where a tree has grown into the skies
you stand covering eyes with your palm
and see: over the square, where the public garden is,
some block near the centre,
where St Vladimir's stands in the snow
and the top of its belltower is sliced by the sky,
and the candle burns down in the mirror,
and its illusory light lights your hands:
you look at them and you pity them so,
that it seems if you die right away,
the mirror will leave everything as it is:
the piece of paper, the candles, the magazines, the window-sill,
and on your retinas, hidden by your palm,
this forest by the shore with its nests upside down.


To Rika

Keep this night close to your chest,
hunched in the winter room. Stepping as though into water
you are all the rustle of the river,
all the crunch of ice-floes,
all my choking cry and air.

The winter air and wind. The street lamps knock,
like frozen fingers on windows,
and this is all by heart,
and this is all learnt by rote,
remain again illiterate.
Shadows in the river again, the weak rustling of the river,
where the blocks of ice break on the edge,
you are the birth of ice-floes,
you are an unscreamed scream,
o river, like the swans’ flight.

Keep this night close, this North and this ice,
clapping your palms as in a dance,
you are all the cray of the river, the pale blue
development in the white miracle of space.


For Brodsky

Silver lantern, little flower,
lock me in a god-forsaken alley,
and break, silver one, at my feet
into little lamps, stars and crescents.

The bridge trembles like a sleigh bell,
the trams clatter, and friends go away.
I raise a palmful of silver
and hurl it after their tiny freedom,
and alone in an abandoned room,
I will read poems to my mirror acquaintance,
and will tremble again in autumn's breast
like splinters, fragments of the sun.

So let's gather up the yarn of joy
as we forget bitterness and hurts.
Let's sit on the iron steps,
on the trodden down flagstones of the city,
and the streetlamps that we cannot hear
will rustle with their eyelashes in the mist,
and the night will ring out in the alley
and sway like a tiny tram.

Let us, my friends, gather up the yarn
as one locks away dresses for special occasions.
So, my neighbour in the mirror, my admirer,
break into the smithereens of ill luck.
Shine on, my silver lantern.
Marches will be written for our homeland
and will be served at festive tbls,
and I, my god, feel both merry and bizarre,
like a light bulb that is hung on a pole.

Bridges approach each other at night,
and the best gold of gardens and churches fades.
You come to bed through landscapes, and you
are like a butterfly pinned mortally to my life.

The half twilight is not dark, but grey,
and our room is empty,
Petersburg at twilight reeks
like a drunkard's mouth.

I know it by heart
from the mouldy smell of its basements:
the canals, the gulfs, the ditches,
like boys hanging about beside one.

Connecting the capital by bridges,
inhaling the bitterness of the skies,
the islands float up
like suicides on the dark water.

Petersburg is a god-forsaken place,
a facade peeled by the wind,
when, turned back from the estuary,
the Neva chases the waves back.

The echo of the tugs unravels
like fabric and torments the ear,
so, not having gone away anywhere
let’s all gather our bundles,

and let's say farewell. Years
of farewells are left for us;
the deserted, overcast town:
the cobblestone, the gulf, and the canal.

The heat is measured, like the striking of a clock,
it is bent in languor as an elbow behind one’s back.
Every movement was hidden in it,
every thought coiled up and died.

A burnt forest and a beetle is flying away,
rustling its wings, swollen in the sun,
and the clock's hand does not deviate
from the vertical down to the dragonflies of the reed.

Here is the lake in the forest. I am standing
above the solitary, secluded water,
and over me a tree spreads its gift
of shadow: coolness and shelter.

O, lake, I am in your dusk,
but I know you will not preserve me
and the withered leaves alight on your ripples,
and the long silence is all around.


The fences of the remote suburbs, the castles of factories,
their morning light and the white streams
of today's fresh-fallen snow
on the slopes of the quiet embankments of Okhta.

Alone I cross the huge bridge
leaving behind me the enlarging space
where stretch the rafts of logs,
powdered with the first snow.

It's possible that when I grow old
I shall move to the right bank,
so as to see the barges in the morning of icing over
and Petersburg, melting out under the sun.
December 1963

Like a spore I will sleep through till the spring ice,
till the menthol freshness of March,
when time – the sheet of undried corrections
will drive me out into the steppe, so as to disappear further.

When the squares of the sun, lying on the parquet floor,
raise the dust, like a herd on the road,
I shall be left alone there, where the royal cedar
and where every stump is nothing but an old executioner's block.

Tucking an axe into the red belt,
like a woodcutter, originally a woodpecker,
I will pretend to be myself and with an earring in my ear
will rate myself: have I gone seriously mad?

There the sable bathes in the midday snow.
The foxes twine round like smoke,
and if I cannot live in the future,
put coins on my eyes.
December 1963

I'll tour the town like a happy guide
and give a coin to a gipsy for a flower.
The last snow, pockmarked with the thaw
is no longer snow, but tomorrow's torrent.

Spring, spread your cloudbursts on the streets,
where the quiet river stirs,
where clouds rush under clouds
reflecting in the broken ice.

Spring, my soul, mould the planets,
while your gardens are still dead,
chase me, like disasters that have been lived through,
along the yellow tar of the roads.

Preserve my absurd losses
and when my final thought dies,
stay on, my soul, dropping feathers,
and suddenly rouse yourself and begin your flight.

Enter into others under their ribs as under vaults,
so someone going along the street
will brighten up in the spring weather,
and barely audibly scream out with my voice.

To Rika

To stand in the road, lonely as a milestone,
to see just one thing – a cathedral which is tall as a pigeon loft,

in the faded gardens, in the narrow cracks of hollows
spreading their pale blue cloaks like wings,

schools of fish will flash in the new moonlight of disasters,
illuminating the clouds as though a flash of a thought about you.

Beyond the hills of roads, where the bend has a steep brow,
God is appearing near the hunchbacked huts.

Night thickens – the light
from the sedges on the bank rises high over you.

Each leaf is as a little fish, quivering, gold:
that's life rising after you on wings.

And the darkness is the same between the different fires,
O how the wings pull, but do not dare to fly!

You outstrip yourself, like a dress coming off at the shoulder,
and you will slide down the grass keeping shouting.

No, do not dare to fly off into the new moonlight of disasters:
do you hear the pines rustling a thought about you.

I thank you for the snow,
for the sun shining on Your snow,
for being able to thank You
for all the days that are granted me.

It's not a bush before me, but a temple,
the temple of Your bush in the snow,
and, falling at Your feet, within it,
I can find no greater happiness.

You accepted your crucifixion,
like the sin of dreadful shame.
You did not threaten me with revenge,
but only exclaimed: `What on earth am I doing?'

This is just a room, not a lake –
with lilies, Ophelia,
a coronet of flowers – but you didn't torture me
with questions, just your timidity,

and there's only shame left in pursuit,
tracking, tormenting memories,
leading to love, to confusion,
with outdoor landscapes and the power of naked bodies.

We never forgot our women in celebrating
our betrayals. We delayed cursing ourselves
with the eternal ritual, and now,
just what do we have left?

We loved our wives like lovers,
and betrayed them as if they were lovers:
and you were just a fragile shelter,
it will be remembered if you were more:

so remember that shame leaves scars, and don't complain
that you have a second role. We were extras
when we started out down this road:
so forgive me that fury.


For Rita

Take all of this in: the night and death, and August.
Here is your portrait, the portrait of the coach windows.
You are cast into the rains, you are the dark rain, you are the moisture
of the night fields, where only a solitary milepost looms in the distance.
O bird, do you hear
thаt confession of the earth,
that story of terror,
that autumn air, which you are breathing,
the grandeur and scent of the damp grass.
This is your bed for the night and my unheard footsteps;
so look round before you fly,
then take off in triumph and, breathing with autumn,
put out with a wing the night turnings
of the constellations of August. Then hurry again
to overtake my unfaithful day which is past.
Here are the shadows of birds over the field,
like a measured
flight of bells, and the clouds
move off as though they're returning from war:
leaving the moon empty, the long moon,
and only the milepost, and only a bird’s flock,
and only you,
and the night flowers
are drawn to sleep.
The garden of flowers
and grasses is dead, still.

I recognise the beginning: you are a dark garden,
you are the rain, you are the leaf-fall,
so fly in triumph, circle, my chance one.

Take all this in: the twilight after sunset, and its shadow,
and when you go, leave
that shame like a track,
and throw into your memory, as though into an urn,
the day beyond death, my old pistol.


I tell of my orphanhood like a poor jester
of his wicked ugliness.
Marina Tsvetayeva

I accept you, orphanhood,
like parting, splitting up, hurt,
like de Coster's monsters lugged
on their high humps their fates.

I accept it like a collection from the crowd
but the roads lay like a crucifixion,
where there were only loss and bitterness,
there the church porch was the tallest in the world.
There the loftiest souls in the world
waste themselves, taxed out,
accepting their daily bread
equally with eternal rags.

The poet's cloak is in tatters.
O poems, o my likeness,
for the undecayed world of lovers
I grant myself lovelessness,
like the road, the hump, the church porch,
like the loss of that with which I grew together,
I commit myself to anathema,
to restless orphanhood.
November 20, 1961



Lullaby your daughter with your heart beats.
Think up a royal name for her,
when the night within me as a salvo
still drags by dead canals.

It is for me to love you, to search blindly for you,
and to welcome a new loss.
The leaves fly down with your every step,
and press themselves to an empty print.

The night becomes the clangor of gardens.
The soul, tired of the whispers, their scores,
will fall asleep easily, tossing to the heart beats.

But I am ready, as before,
to love you, to search blindly for you,
and lay myself down, like a bough on the spike of the fence.


You hear the water slapping
up and down the bottom, the sides of the boat,
when those two giving themselves over
to the rocking of the waves,

lie like the dead, turning
their faces to the peace of the skies,
and the morning sand breathes,
bumped by the boats into the reeds.

When I, your dear one, die,
forget the ceremonial,
let me lay down in the forest
with a face like these lakes!


The slow sun rose
through the mass of white mist,
and it was overcast and early,
and it was sorrowful and sleepy.

The morning damp sparkled
on the buds like kisses,
and the clouds, like smoke from the streets
flowed both slowly and smoothly.

The early crows shrieked
as though they were wounded.
The river with its misty shoulders
rocked the sorrowful faces,
and the horses evenly shuddered
and rubbed their warm sides.
The fountain burst out
of the dark underworld and fell on the stones.

Tiny shadows rushed around,
and, rising into full voice,
the whole morning was a unity,
unsplittbl into parts.
The early caprices lost
their intentional lightness.
The fountain was cold and sensitive
like elbows touched by the wind.

Stone cold came from the bowl,
half filled and bright,
and it felt merry and frightening
to catch the intermittent moods,
as though the cool of May,
the fountain and the gloomy horses
in the flying cloud of disintegration
seemed to be a primordial homeland.
1962 (?)


A gathering of fruits! Here are the full baskets
of feminine pears, and here the apples
as though fresh from the frost. Moustachioed Georgians
stand over them in regal poses
like trees picked clean.
It all irritates the northerner's vision!

Woolly peaches, like chicks
that have broken the shell, and alongside the grapes,
like drops, naked, broken up into rhombuses of holes,
a maquette of the rain, transparent and green.
Here are the oranges, swollen, like a useless fire
lit in the midday heat.

The crowd buzzes, half-faces buried
in the water melon, like a fly under a glass.
The little glass bubble of every cherry
is squeezed in everyone’s fingers, lusting before its taste.
A cart of round cantaloupes shakes by the rows
where each melon is a central nucleus.

Here, ripened for crystal salad dishes,
lies the tomato in proximity to the aubergine,
and the market sweats with the flesh
of the townspeople, and exhales kvass,
where the August sky is confined in the pomegranate,
in which each seed is a carat.

The warty cucumber surfaces into the smooth
of pickling, flavoured with bay leaves.
This day is blessed, this splendid gathering
of the gifts of the earth on the streets of the bazaar,
when the autumn of the hot towns
brings baskets, full of fruits.


For my Rika

There's no heat here, you will not live with me
for long, in this winter house,
and this rain while I am still alive,
will remain as though flicked from a brush
on the windows. The same rain makes a noise

under my skull. And the streets are deserted.
So learn to live my life in the north
in any uncomfortbl flat.

Yes, you will go away, but your face will remain
in the old mirrors, and at night
the same rain, flowing down the window pane
in my house, will be multiplied
in the drops of September on the shaky steps,
and, slowly unravelling the days,
as though you were not here,
the streets will still be deserted.

Still we will hide under
soaking coats again, accompanying ourselves,
and the sleepy, rocking trams,
as though they could protect us,
go to other homes, beyond the rain,
where the warm light stirs lazily,
where the streetlamp splashes, and you walk
among the mirrors, stretching out with the cloudburst.
1962 or 1963


Your eyes, my beauty, represented
not the churches of autumn nor churches, only their sadness.
Some ancient trees
served as my armchair; you were my shepherd's pipe.

I fed the birds, I saw every hair strand
of those long lilies that your voice spun.
I drew it on the sticky mud of midday
then wiped it off so that I could remember it tomorrow morning.
Fall 1965


On a branch by the farm house,
rising to the midday heat,
thousands of cut-outs soared
multicoloured as a girl's ribbon,
and the lilac bush on the sand
was full of the sound of their fluttering,
when the two best ones
began to pulse on your temple.

(Beginning of poem)

Frost in the deserted skies,
the number of immortals is at a low ebb,
but the angel on duty bears the chill,
dodging the shallow stars.

And in the room my wife's face,
with her luxuriant hair, is pale on the pillow,
my wife's face and her eyes on it
and on her body are two wonderful breasts.

I kiss her face at the temple.
There's such a frost outside: I can't hold back the tears.
I have fewer and fewer friends among the living
and more and more among the dead.

Snow illuminates the beauty of your faces,
and the spaces in my soul,
and with each kiss I am saying farewell...
The candle burns, which I am carrying

to the top of the hill, the snowy mound.
A glance at the skies. The moon is still yellow,
dividing the hill into a black slope and a white one,
on the white side the woods stretched.

Fresh snow lay on the rough crust.
Here and there the sedge thrust through.
Those woods were indistinguishable
on the dark side. The moon shone slantingly.

Victim of the vagaries of somnambulism
I climbed, raising the shadows,
and forced onto my knees by the summit
I smoothly thrust the candle into the fluffy snow.
january 1968


Wreath of sonnets

I looked at the heavens from a balcony.
In the dark, indistinguishable dogs
were barking at the Dog in Heaven,
but I knew that it wouldn't come to a fight!

Towards morning, scarce night, there was a thunderstorm.
Crossing the old women, scaring marriages,
it sparkled with attacking looks,
untying the hands of the crazy gardens.

It happens so that Phoebus races past us,
his face flashes for a day, or an hour,
then the rain again, again the smell of the garden.

Then the sunset. Windlessness. Peace.
The cicadas chatter, prophesying the darkness.
If there was a river, we'd live beyond it.
14 August 1967

I looked at the skies from a balcony
with my beloved wife Margarita.
The whole sky was crammed with stars,
and we could hear their voices.

The whole day passed like half an hour:
the rain trebled our appetites,
we were killed by unrestrained sleep –
dreams are transient! O to sleep through sleep!

The sunset was like a rose in a buttonhole
then it disappeared in the clouds
and again Fishes, Swans, and Crabs,

Lions, Scorpions, Aries, Taures.
The hounds and dogs indiscernible
in the dark, sensing a wild animal, started barking.
15 August 1967

In the dark, indiscernible dogs
were barking out the fifteenth again,
and before it began to dawn,
all seven heavens pissed from the drainpipes into the tanks.

Lightly leaving my bed of idleness,
I went out into the empty, trembling, soft garden.
The day was dull, but if I should lie,
it was all shining and the poppies trembled.

At that time the heat would be timely,
all day I quoted Rabelais to you,
supporting my right hand.

I went away, without having finished writing the sonnet.
What happened after? The Cerberuses of the provinces
were barking at the Dog in Heaven.
16 August 1967

They were barking at the Dog in Heaven,
the dogs of the earth, showing their daring.
To live, to die: I wanted it all in that night!
But the night passed, and with it its beauty.

I came to. There was a tear on me.
A mayfly sat on my shoulders.
Eos, hunched up, stepped into the pond
and met the father with lilies.

The day arrived and would be endless,
if the sun would suddenly have stopped,
but the heavenly body, obedient to time,

disappeared at the determined time.
The earth and the sky argued in the dark,
but I knew that it wouldn't come to a fight.
16-17 August 1967

Still in the morning mists
your young lips.
Your flesh is Godfragrant
as orchards and their fruits.

I stand before you,
as though I were lying on the summit
of that mountain where pale blue
takes a long time to become dark blue.

What could be happier, than to be a garden
in a garden? And a morning in a morning.
What a joy it is to
confuse a day with eternity!

The forested area of lordly ponds.
Two girls of Turgenev’s style,
reading books, or simply lying
under a tree with no special comforts,
or abandoning me in the midst of August,
running, calling, or asking
me to retell them the entire story of Werther,
or bursting into the wood: autumn!
confusion, the rowan tree, hawthorn,
the darkness of the fir woods!
And I am the young ladies’ tutor.
I run, I turn somersaults, they find
my informality flattering,
the declining of our age difference.
A swarm of butterflies in the mirror of the air!
The ponds, the stifling heat, oh the forestry!
Summer 1963, Barviha


Does someone really dare to embrace you?
Night and the river in the night are not so beautiful.
Oh, how could you decide to be so lovely,
that having lived my life, I want to live again?

I am Caesar myself. But you are sо noble
that I am in the crowd, staring respectfully:
there is your breast, there are your legs, in harmony,
and if that is your face, then what a miracle is your crotch!

If you were to be a night butterfly
I would be a candle flying before you.
The night sparkles with river and skies.

I look at you – so silent before me.
I would like to touch you with my hand
to sustain a long memory.
May - July 1969


My love, sleep my little golden one,
dressed all in satin skin.
I seem to think we've met somewhere:
I know your nipple so well and your underwear.

How it suits you, how it goes with you, it's just you:
all this day, all this Bach, all this body,
this day, and this Bach, and this plane
flying there, flying here, flying somewhere.

Into this garden, into this Bach, into this moment,
fall asleep, my love, fall asleep without covering up:
your sacred face and bottom, bottom and crotch, crotch and face,
let all sleep, let all sleep, my living one!

Not approaching one iota, not one step,
give yourself up to me in all gardens and conjugations!

My love, sleep my little golden one,
dressed all in satin skin.
I seem to think we've met somewhere:
I know your nipple so well and your underwear.

How it suits you, how it goes with you, it's just you:
all this day, all this Bach, all this body,
this day, and this Bach, and this plane
flying there, flying here, flying somewhere.

Into this garden, into this Bach, into this moment,
fall asleep, my love, fall asleep without covering up:
your sacred face and bottom, bottom and crotch, crotch and face,
let all sleep, let all sleep, my living one!

Not approaching one iota, not one step,
give yourself up to me in all gardens and conjugations!

Everything is the Face: the face is the Face.
Dust is the Face, words are the Face.
Everything is the Face. Of Him. The Creator's.
Only He Himself has no Face.

One can count us all on one’s fingers,
on the ones that bless! My friends,
who granted me that honour
to be among you? But will it be for long?

Anyway, take care,
any of you. Anyway,
of all gifts given to me, my friends,
you are the best ones.

Farewell, dear friends. In everything
I have my own sadness. A man of the evening,
I sit alone. I am not with you.
Let God give you long draughts of wine. .
Summer 1969


Young skies in the sky
and a pond full of sky, and a bush leaning into the sky.
What happiness to go down into the garden again
where I have never been before.
I stand slowly, embracing myself,
opposite the stars, facing non-being.

I looked at the heavens again:
the sad eyes of my face
saw a cloudless sky,
and the young skies in the sky.
Not taking my eyes off those skies,
admiring them, I was gazing at you.
Summer 1967

The beetle burst into flame,
immolated in its own ray.
The stream straightens itself
as if a continuation of a long thought.

The girl smells of lilac
and flies after herself,
having flown through the trees,
both selves became blue.

Who can tell how he died?
The girl sleeps and she's not blue anymore.
Altshuler stands in heaven,
like an angel with a trumpet.
Summer 1968


As though dead, I hid myself
and concealed my body in the leaf fall.
A conversation of an owl and a mouse
meandered in humble nature,
and a beetle wagging its droning train
flew, broad breasted
where a whirring of spokes
hung trembling on wings over the waters,
where the blue sawtoothed mountains
bloodied the countenance of the lakes,
beautiful with their Northernness and shrines,
where someone saw them and cried –
and perhaps is still crying.

The swift coiling of the adder
I looked on as a chant,
and I saw some Face in
the darkness of the woods.
Buzzing round its own 'U',
a heavy beetle circled in the grass,
and the wasps, stinging deep into the flower,
rustled to them from the distance.
A maiden was standing near the water,
which was leafing through the faces,
and round the dried nets the smoke
was dark as it hovered over the shore.

The deep tracks of winter
are fresh as moist flowers,
and it isn’t clear why
I do not see a bee on them:
for, clothed for winter,
it could stay here over from summer,
then I would weave a wreath
from impressions of paws and feet,
where the gates of northern despair
are getting tall in their drawing nearer,
and the snow on the huge elk antlers
is untouched by the ribbons of sledges.

Here you were as beautiful
as line: 'my sadness is luminous.'
February? 1965

For Vitaly Aronzon from his brother on the day of writing


A cirris cloud surfaced.
In the backwaters of the forest water,
the swan swims like a bud
of a royal lily, an Ophelia.
As a chrysalis of morning in night
poured from the candle.
Bending its neck it kisses
the reflection of some thought.
It swims as though there's no one to...
It doesn't swim, it slides over the ice,
a continuation of miraculous dreams,
a vessel of pure light.
5 October 1966.

EMPTY SONNET (To be printed in a rectangle)

Who loved you more rapturously than I?
May God protect you, God protect you, O God protect you.
The gardens wait, the gardens wait, wait in the nights
and you in the gardens, you in the gardens are waiting too.

I would like to, I would like to instil my sadness
into you, instil it so as not to alarm
your sight of the night grass, your sight of its stream,
so that sadness, so that grass would become our bed.

To pierce into the night, to pierce into the garden, to
to lift eyes, to lift eyes to compare the night in the garden
with the heavens, and the garden in the night, and the garden
which is full of your night voices.

I go towards them. Face full of eyes,
The gardens are waiting for you to wait in them.

следующая Проза Л.Аронзона (избранное)
предыдущая Леонид Аронзон: подборка Виталия Аронзона, брата поэта

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

πτ 18+
(ↄ) 1999–2024 Полутона

Поддержать проект
ЮMoney | Т-Банк