Rus Articles Journal

It was his first young love of

It was his first young love which incidentally flashed on a schoolyard,

By the form modest - somewhere Maria, and mind not striking - from simple, from a plow.

Cooked to it chicken soup, washed its things, sometimes ironed it on the turning gray hair,

But never, never said that she loves it.

He sometimes in a fit of temper and aloud called it a gray mouse, and often was ashamed of it, he wanted to

the passionate celebutante, vigorous passions, exits in trite light,

of Silly conversations about literature, intellectual disputes and that She told

to it as he is exclusive and clever.

Banal soup, household disorder, falsity of world around

Awakened in it a devil who comfortably was arranged long ago in his head.

I then he got drunk, cursed god, called the wife the silly woman, uncomprehending it,

Left, came back, calmed down, thinking that she will forgive him.

And it, having squeezed bloodless lips, forgave as mother of vyplakanny eyes Maria forgave.

But to it it was a little - because the devil became his best friend without whom it could not any more.

He indulged in defects, despondency, and in thirty three, having understood suddenly,

That a half of his life passed for nothing, decided to commit suicide.

But once having come home, as usual from work, he saw that something not so.

In a case is empty, a familiar smell of perfume and on a table a note “Farewell, darling“.

I here he understood that he got desired freedom, but lost the bored love,

Which unostentatiously lived in this small house.

A lonely portrait, a curl of a fair hair, an echo of noiseless steps -

Everything reminded of it. “My God, but why I did not store the finest on light -

Love! Why it was so silly, and considered himself cleverest?!

What to do to me now? How to be? How further to live?“ there is no

it. And the trace caught a cold. There was only a grief of memoirs.

Ten of the years lived together. Everything endured - both pleasures, and grieves.

the Footpath on which it went, a lilac bush which so loved.

the Grey mouse by the name of Lyubov here does not live any more.