Капелла - Однозвучно гремит колокольчик - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

This should be turned over this page in the 1946 memory, but from some of its dark deserts, images, scraps of conversations, the living warm heart of those hours and minutes suddenly come out. Blessed Augustine has a wonderful phrase: "Where are you now, my childhood? For it cannot be that you have not been anywhere." With the same words, maybe we turn to everything dear, to everything that was someday in our life, we turn to such bitterness, because we don’t see him anymore, and with such hope that maybe when it is when it is when -we'll see again. As the Great Saturday is sung: "The dead will be resurrected and the existing in the tombs will be rebelled, and all the earthodnia will rejoice." But what has now arisen in memory cannot be transmitted in words, since, in fact, it has no plot. This is only a singing of one song. It is known that the old Russian song sometimes can achieve prayer sadness, but I did not know that the old Russian romance could also achieve prayer sadness. The tightness in this chamber, where the Lutherin stood on the rostrum, was such that when we were brought for ten minutes and locked the restroom completely in size, even the brave Kolchakovsky colonels caught in a real fainting from the stuffiness, caught after the end of the war where- then in China. All day we sat on the bunks, and if you get up to stretch, then you enter into a thick continuous stream of people who rotate through the cell. And here is a dear friend of these days, whom I had never known before and just met and lost a few days forever, tells me: “I know what to please you!” His eyes sparkled, and he climbed on the bunks. “Vasily Petrovich!” Chapel! " he shouted. A few minutes later, according to the pattern of rotation of the human stream, two strangers to me landed on our bunks. Their appearance did not say anything to me: so, some in gray sweatshirts. They sang tenors:

The bell rattles uninviated,

And the road is dusty slightly,

And delayed on a flat field

The song of the coachman is pouring ...

Lermontov has a dream in a dream, and here is a song in the song. Dozens of times already heard words again led the heart.

And I remembered the other nights

And other fields and forests ...

It was not a song in those minutes, but a confession about the most precious that was hiding at the bottom. How much joyful for us in these dark distant fields, in the fields, such dear to the heart. If they are not in the present, then God has them. "For it cannot be that they are nowhere to be nowhere."

My friend, who convened a chapel, before that he asked me: "So I will come to the camp. Can I commit suicide?" He, of course, was not in the technique of this matter, but wanted to know: if he does it, would the Lord allow him to approach such a Russian night to Kitezhe's little dozing before the matins? He asked and looked at me with anxious and gullible eyes. He had a very difficult consequence, and he was a weak man, he was a Russian intellectual. I was silent, then answered him formally. And he asked: "Do you answer formally?" And I said: "Yes."

S.I. Food (memories)