Zarema I Don'T Want A War Poem by Yuri Starostin

Zarema I Don'T Want A War



I DON'T WANT A WAR

The passed day replacement is
A new day.
I'm friend with him.
What's my name?
«Zarema! »
Who I am?
«One girl! »

There a Caspian is inappeasable,
I grow, as all grow.
And still by the way
A people call me «little».

I am small, and, probably,
Because I don't understand
Why sudden over me
The month became a moon.

Looking at the picture in the book,
I will not take the mean sometimes:
This is an aunt, or an uncle,
This is a heifer or a wolf?

Once I began ask
My dod about it.
The father thought for a whole hour,
But he could not give me an answer.

Yesterday two boys
Fight among the court.

If a strife kindle -
Then a service-to-service.
And they seated without a threat
A noses to each other.

Instantly our rear, however,
Grabbed their ears here:
«What is a fight! »
And reconciled a boys.

A far side shrouded in a mist,
And the moon looked in the window,
And, though to me restricted,
I sit in front of the screen,
Watch a movies about the war.

All I tremble got a fright:
People, are an adult quite,
Do not fight,
And killed on the war
Each other.

Got accustomed to the situation
And shoot without a stopping.
Here to take would them for an ears,
Deprive a rifles them,
Take away a cannon also.

I want that a children
An adults were deserve.
Becoming friendlier, becoming smarter
They do not fought one another on a war.

I want that a people were reputed
Good for all of the years,
That an evil men never interrupt
To the good people.

A rivers hear, a mountains hear -
A motors hum above the ground.
That flies is not someone -
It is to meeting
A diplomats keep the road.

I want together with them
A doll could hold a speech,
Whose a housewives a nonhumans burned
In Auschwitz in the stoves.

I want that a cranes
Trumpet over them
And could remind them
For the victims of Hiroshima.

And do about the white terrible,
Mushroom, nomadic cloud,
That toss the evil arrows
Of a radiation sickness.

And do about the girl died,
Which do not want die
And which knew cut a cranes
From a paper.

And the smallness of a cranes
Left make to the girl...
The work is hard for a patient,
Still her, woesome, it seemed
The cranes care her.

The cranes cannot care -
It's clear even to me.
Let a people help to a people,
Blocking a paths of the war.

If a highlanders in the old days
Pulled out a steel of the sheath
And venture a bloody war
Among themselves,

Then a mother with a child come
Between the mountaineers.
And an hands down,
Fading a passionate hostility.

Every day an alarming news,
Again the world is armed.
May be,
Stand me together with my mother
Between the warring parties?

Sunday, May 10, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: life,peace
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