Мартин Хайдеггер - Просёлок. - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

He leads to Enrid from the gates of the Palace Park. Old linden looks after him through the walls of the park, whether on Easter days, when the road with a bright thread runs past the Niva and awakening meadows, which are covered with fresh greenery, whether it is closer to Christmas, when it disappears from sight of the first hill. From the crucifixion in the field, she turns to the forest. Near the edges, she welcomes a high oak, under which a roughly knocked out bench stands. It used to be that this or another great thinker lay on this bench that an awkward young mind tried to unravel. When the riddles crowded each other and there was no way out of the impasse, then the lane went to the help of the field. For he silently directs the feet of a spinning path through the entire expanse of the poor edge. And so far, the thought, turning to the previous works or indulging in his own experiences, happens, will return to the paths that the Efficiency praises through meadows and fields. The lane is just as close to the steps of the thinking person as the steps of the settler, who in the early morning going to mowing. Over the years, oak, standing by the road, increasingly leads to the memories of children's games and the first attempts to choose. Sometimes in the depths of the forest under the blows of an ax fell an oak, and then his father, without hesitation, set off straight aid through the thicket and through the sun -filled glades in order to get a stan of wood due to his workshop. Then he, slowly, was rushing through the breaks, what service left him with tower watches and bells - both of them have their own special attitude to time, to temporary. We, the boys, made boats from the oak bark and, supplying rowing banks and the steering wheel, launched them in the stream of Mettenbach, or in the pool at the school. These distant voyages still easily led to the goal, and soon ended on their shore. The dreams of wanderings were still hidden in that hardly noticeable radiance that then everything surrounded. The eyes and hands of the mother were the whole border and the limit. It was as if she kept and fenced all being and staying her silent care. And there was still nothing to the travels-bastards about those wanderings and wandering, when a person leaves in an inaccessible Dali behind him any shores. Meanwhile, the firmness and smell of oak began to more intelligently repeat about the slowness and gradualness with which the tree grows. The Oak himself said that the only thing on such a growth is all the durable and fruitful, that growing means - to open towards the breadth of heaven, and together to root in the impenetrable crown of the earth; He said that the native-clamped will be born only when a person equally and is truly ready to fulfill the orders of the exceeding heaven, and will be buried under the protection of the earth carrying him on himself. And the oak continues to say this laundry, which, in no doubt in its path, passes by him. Everything that lives around the countryside, he collects in his bins, devoting to everyone who goes to him. The same arable fields and meadows along the gentle slopes of the hills at all times of the year accompany the lane in his way, approaching and moving away. All one thing: whether the alpine peaks high above the forests are immersed at the twilight of the evening, whether it rises to the heaven, towards the summer morning, the lark where the lane was swayed with a ridge of the hills, whether the eastern wind is blowing from the side of the mother’s native village, whether the lumberjack is dragging on the shoulders, returning. By night home, a bundle of brushwood for the hearth, whether it is slowly wandering, shifting, the supply, loaded with rods, whether the children collect the first bells on the megee of the meadow or the fogs are rolled up for the whole days under the fields - always, everywhere, and everywhere in the air over the road over the road above the road. A call is heard - comfort and exhortation, in which everything sounds the same. The simplicity of the simple sakes inside itself in its truth the riddle of everything great and enduring. The uninvited, simplicity suddenly enters people and, however, needs to mature and bloom for a long time. In inconsistency, constantly the same simplicity is fraught with its blessing. And the breadth of everything that has grown up and has grown up in its stay near the road, gives the world. In the lack of her speeches, as Ecckekhardt says, an old master in reading and life. God for the first time gets