The Poem About Beautiful Maria Valery Alalykin Poem by Yuri Starostin

The poem about beautiful Maria
The destiny which cannot be expected,
At times happens by itself.
At the exhibition once
I had to see
The portrait of the young maiden.
On a cloth with the shine ray look
There was a staying girl in the graceful completeness
And dreamt, as though did about the meeting coming soon,
And all burnt in the soul beauty.
In her eyes, the pensive and gentle,
The feeling for the big Love has jam-ed,
And on the breast, the high, the snow-white,
The sapphire hung- the skiper of the maiden destiny.
In a rich blouse, soon as of a ruby,
She was most live to all live!
And the sorrow was rolled suddenly -
There is no place to us in a picture for a two!
And I see, all is vain! In the different worlds we are!
Likely, never to be to me with her!
How bitterly to live by the dreams in vain
And the lonely to remain till the last days!
Artists!
Why you write the masterpieces?
Why you confuse by the unearthly beauty?
You deprive us the habitual belief -
To fall in love on the Earth and to find a rest.
«Maria! - in the thoughts I tell the name,
Which has read on the cloth, -
Tell to me: you sometime was loved?
You can - though for the instant -
To stop the sight at me? »
And here I am from the weary have choked:
The sapphire has flashed by the blueness.
On the Earth the maiden sight has returned!
Such hearty It was and native!
So we has looked each other,
While the duty suddenly go approached:
«I ask to forgive -the apart has come …» -
An others words to us he has not found.
More three days I stay at the picture
And was happy with Maria to speak,
And knew that to me already henceforth
With other woman to fall not in love.
The wheaten colour her hair of the strange
My excitements by the hope has shined.
But how to return the former rest to me?
I around did not notice anybody.
Well who will understand the mind inflamed?
Well who will understand the mad dream?
To home I go be raised,
That in the loneliness to pour the melancholy.
And here I am in home. I put Bach.
The organ sounds solemnly and imperiously.
For a long time I did not hear with the such expense
The mighty music born not in vain!
And at once it is easier to live and think about the great!
About that you live do not in vain!
In the fine world many-sided
For all and for yourself.
And at once it is desirable to believe
In the happy Love!
And never to play the hypocrite,
Recognising it as the eternal call!
And suddenly soundless the door has opened,
As though in the other world absolutely,
And before me the appeared
Maria's beauty unearthly is!
As it is possible from the other world
To enter into the real world terrestrial?
Do this the only Lyre can,
For ever to take away a rest!
What the laces from the thoughts were weaved!
I could to understand nothing.
I have been lost - can, in vain was fond? -
Well who has decided so suddenly to play?

Maria, choking from the excite,
Wishing me to tell something,
Have shaken suddenly, and in the instant
I has the time to embrace her, not allowed to fall.
I felt the elasticity of her body,
The breath with a smell of a pair milk.
My soul was mourned and sang:
She has come to me! But who is she? .
And I have understood It is not the picture.
She is live all and simple human!
And it is necessary to me the conversation with her longly -
I do not believe that it is from the museum the mystical runaway!
She lay silently, motionlessly.
The decline tired has shined the walls.
And the evening fell to us quietly,
And it is tender about something has conjured.
But here Maria was roused.
Her face has be red from the shame,
As though the people have peeped,
What with her has happened suddenly a trouble.
«Maria, - I have asked, - by what road
The destiny has suddenly lead you?
And why with such alarm
You have desperately entered into the door?
Sit down to the table. At first we will drink the tea.
I again have made the fresh.
I soar by the all nights in the dreams -
The fine your image has bewitched me»
«My friend, - Maria has answered, -
I heard, you are Maxim to call.
The wonderful tea with the jasmin florets!
But I want to tell all truth.
I am the daughter of the artist, was the patient -
Has withered the vital hard.
I am by a day and night, in a heat has flaring,
Waited, when the death will come for me.
But my father has searched for the reason
In the tragical outcome of the life.
And has suddenly conceived to write the picture,
Which should care me.
However the passed days, weeks …
The picture in the gallery is, I am in the bed.
And the hope thawed, the summer left…
And I already said goodbye to this light.
And suddenly to me it became better -
I have cheered up!
By the water cold-ed I has washed
And into the hall has entered, do not feeling myself,
And there has seen you! .
«The career! - I has wanted to shout, -
You see, I have come myself? »
But I has em-hold-ed, to do better to penetrate,
Whence these miracles …
You stay all the day in front of the picture.
Has left the last from the museum.
And I stood with the bitter mine
And without you I became weaker.
So every day we were meet in the museum,
But you did not notice me.
Your sight has been directed on the fairy,
Which my father has written.
And every day to me it became better!
The illness has left somewhere recklessly.
And me to disappear from you it is not so necessary.
I for you have gone desperately and idly!
And here we drink with you the tea with a jasmin.
Now you know everything, Maxim.
Forgive, I was fond of the long story.
Tell, you have been sometime beloved? »
«Maria! What to tell to you on it?
The magic tea with the jasmin florets!
All the days long I was wandered with the loved somewhere,
But it only was the picture …
She loved me all the days long.
Waited all night long, do not an eye having closed.
And I has trusted in the meeting from the darling,
And kissed her, hardly having fallen asleep»
«Maxim, thanks for the recognition!
Now I will kiss you.
At us the happy meeting!
You have cared me, but I worry! »
And here that instant has come fine.
I am happy - she is similar to me!
And her kiss -the desperate and passionate -
Became the holiday of the big Love!
What are lips! The heart fades!
I too oned in the excitement burns.
«Nobody does not know the destiny...» -
I in the kiss do speak.
Artists!
Write everyday the masterpieces!
In them there is a heal force of a beauty!
And let the belief flame does not ashed away!
When you madly are loving!
2009