the Second century in a row no generation in the long-suffering of our Fatherland has not escaped the war. War alternated, changing the scope and name, which brilliantly foresaw V. Bryusov in the poem “Northeast”.

What changed? Signs and vozglavila.

same hurricane in all ways:

the commissioners nonsense autocracy

the Explosions of revolution, the kings.

the Poets — they are visionaries, seers. World wars, revolutionary, civil, domestic, local, hybrid, and, finally, this, today — with the coronavirus. Also, as it turned out, world.

If we discard the ideological husk (signs and vozglavila), for an ordinary normal person, any declared or undeclared war goes on for life, or rather, to saving lives. It is extremely simply and accurately expressed by another great poet Alexander Tvardovsky:

the Battle is Holy and right.

Mortal fight not for glory

for the Sake of life on earth.

Written during the Patriotic war, which buried millions of lives. But statistics — a thing soulless and poorly represented. It is impossible to contain in the consciousness of the mountain of corpses. When in the course of regular military operations by the voice of Levitan was reported that during battles of local importance incurred minor losses, in these miserable from the point of view of high strategy victims were someone’s husband, son and brother. What am I? To ensure that posthumous fame from an entirely different series. Especially when she edited government and is laid in its foundations as the pile or ribbon (experts know that the foundations are of belt and pile).

So, miraculously survived these veterans, which had a chance to speak with one voice, testified that the ninth of may, 1945, they celebrated not victory: “the fact that we’re winning, we knew in the forty-fourth.” They celebrated the end of a bloody meat grinder, which miraculously managed to escape alive. Celebrated and felt guilty innocent in front of their comrades who did not return from the battlefield. Read about it at the front of Twardowski:

I know, no fault of mine

that other not have come from the war,

that they — who are older,


Stayed there, and not about the same speech,

What I could, but was unable to save,

It’s not about that, but still,


And Vladimir Vysotsky, the poet of another generation, which today would be called a “child of war”

sang about the same:

Us places in the dugout

is quite enough,

We the time flew for both of them.

All is now one,

it just seems to me:

I did not return from the battlefield.

Yes, it was a day of sorrow and sadness. That’s why I was so happy when spontaneously, not from the top there was a movement “Immortal regiment”, IB�� was the animation history, its personification. Recovering the intrinsic connection between generations. And cheered until then, until the movement was headed by bureaucratic tribe, whose mission does not change from century to use any auxiliary material, including human bone.

Stanza of “a holiday with tears in the eyes” came later, and the song, which today has become an indispensable part of a winning ritual that originally infuriated bosses (sorry for the unintentional consonance), for the feast is when ordered to rejoice, and nothing to turn it into a Wake.

But the author of the lyrics of the song Vladimir Kharitonov, who passed away in 1981, only fifty-nine years old, truly capture the essence of the event, which was a direct witness. The day of grief and sorrow really was a real holiday. That was a good reason. The saviors of the Fatherland, who bore on himself the unbearable burden of defeats and victories, in fact, very young people, had every reason to hope that they will be a totally different life worthy of the miracle heroes, a life that will sweep the face of the country Soviet serfdom from his prison barracks, barbed wire and fierce the passport regime. But there it was. Very soon these heroes pointed out in their place. For some, very clever and educated, such as captain of artillery A. I. Solzhenitsyn, these places have been prudently prepared in advance. So promptly broke off the first holiday hope. But there was a second, which was destined to warm in his chest the few people that is almost completely scorched by war generation. They followed us, their children, it seemed that after the innumerable victims of this latest war in the history of mankind.

This must not happen again — is firmly imprinted in the consciousness of the postwar generation. Small excesses can happen, but it is no-where! Kremlin elders who survived in one way or another the war, at least in words, stood for the cause of peace. Even in a nightmare could not have dreamed that there would come a time when imported cars of our wealthy citizens will be inscribed popular slogan, “Can you repeat that”.

Alas, was fulfilled the prophecy of V. Bryusov. Alternated signs (ideological and geopolitical orientations) and vozglavila (political leaders) and our children are consistently mowed in Budapest, Afghanistan, Chernobyl, Abkhazia, Chechnya.

And then came the moment when all signs and vozglavila completely lost its meaning. Because the coronavirus is absolutely indifferent, whom to attack: capitalism, socialism, totalitarianism, liberalism, democracy or dictatorship. As for vozglavil (leaders), none of them no longer feels safe. The virus does not hide in ivory towers, no matter how it was called: the Palace andif a special bunker. This infection affects everyone indiscriminately and Prime Ministers, and cooks.

Where is the way out of this truly world war. I’m not talking about scientific response to the epidemic (I’m sure that sooner or later appropriate antiviral vaccine is found), but about the fundamental question of the continued existence of humanity on our fragile planet.

the Answer I find from the wonderful poet — a 96-year-old Alexander Pavlovich Timofeevskaya, who recently lost his son, the famous writer. He and dedicated the poem of the poet, the line from which became the title of these notes. I quote from the bills because of the limitations of newspaper space.

the Crying of dolphins on a submarine

Over the place where sank

Submarine dolphins made a circle

(From Newspapers)


Crackle split Oreja.





what is there in the sound of the waves,

Always laughing cry?

what dolphins placut?




it may Be that the mothers of the people

Want to say

don’t give children the generals.

the Whole earth will pass iron


And will be in window mothers


to convey the Dolphin

the cry:

don’t give children the generals!

We, the people, lost his mind,

No time l to learn from the dolphins?

do Not release children to war…

save them, uprate them in the closet

Lock the doors on a triple lock.

In America, Australia, Europe,

In Russia and in Canada and China

You have so many mothers on Earth.



Ah-Ah-Ah, moaning.

on earth there was silence.

it only Remains to add that the generals are different. Among them are not only militaristic, but also quite a civilian. For example, sand, coal and Nickel mines. The difference is small. Any trench trenches and career will inevitably turn into mass graves our children. Such are the thoughts come against a background of pandemic.