Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a poet whose lyrics have always been imbued with a passion for life, for humanity, and, of course, for women. His heroines are not just muses but also strong personalities, reflections of their times, with whom the poet engages in complex, sometimes dramatic dialogues. These poems contain tender love, the bitterness of parting, admiration for beauty, and reflections on fate. In Yevtushenko's poetry, women are symbols of Russia, its pain and hope, its indomitable spirit.<\/p>\n
\nDon't rush, my joy, don't rush into this world where there's so much falsehood and lies. Leave your mirages for a moment, Feel your heart beat in the silence. Don't rush, my tenderness, don't rush into the whirlpool of days that run so quickly. Let me find happiness in your eyes, And in this moment be frozen forever.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00abWinter Woman\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nA winter woman, snow in her hair, In her eyes \u2013 fragments of loves and losses forgotten through the ages, and quiet tears, And wisdom that cannot be bought for dust. She remembers all the storms and heat, And how youth faded in waves. But in her heart \u2013 eternal peace, And a light that shines over the eternal earth.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00ab"A Face from the Past"\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nA face from the past, like an old film, floats in my memory, barely breathing and flickering. A sad smile, a gentle and quiet gaze, And a whisper of hope, so fragile and glorious. I remember the touch of your hands, And the scent of lilac, And the ringing sound Of your laughter that stuck in my heart, And the world that with you I knew then.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00ab"She's gone."\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nShe left like smoke melting, Leaving only the winter odor in my heart. Without saying goodbye, without saying a word, Only an echo of a former, departed love. I search for her gaze in the crowd of faces, But see only the reflection of distant borders. She's gone, and the world has become gray and empty, And in my memory only her tender taste remains.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00abEvening Song\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nAn evening song, a quiet sadness, She remembers how youth Gone forever, like the summer heat, And her heart began to beat in time with the silence. She looks out the window, at the stars in the distance, And sees in them reflections of former love. An evening song, a sad tune, She remembers how beautiful the world was.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00ab"Hands"\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nHands that remember warmth and caress, Hands that gave me a fairy tale. In them is strength and tenderness, and quiet pain, And a glimmer of a soul that is bright and pure as salt. I remember the touch of these hands, And how all fears and sounds disappeared. Hands that loved, that believed in me, Remain only in my memory, in a dream.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00ab"Letter from the Past"\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nA letter from the past, a yellowed sheet, It contains lines of love that have long been unclean. She writes to me of her melancholy, Of what she forgot in the cold river. I read the letter, and my heart aches, Of what is gone, what cannot be returned, cannot be eradicated. A letter from the past, a sad greeting, She remembers, and I only respond.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00abAutumn Waltz\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nAn autumn waltz, a whirlwind in the silence, She dances as if in the wilderness. In her eyes is a reflection of bygone days, And a sadness that words cannot express, she holds. I look at her, and my heart stops, In her dance is all the life that is fading. An autumn waltz, a sad tune, She dances, and I only remain silent, do not live.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00abHer Portrait\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nHer portrait is painted with rain, And the colors of autumn, a quiet fire. In it are sadness and hope, and a bright sorrow, And an image that is forever stuck in the heart. I see in it tenderness and strength of soul, And a reflection of love found in silence. Her portrait is a memory of her, Of the one who was my destiny, truly.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00ab"Quiet Conversation"\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nA quiet conversation by the fireplace at night, She speaks, and I remain silent, having given her the keys to my heart, and await her words, And I believe in love that is stronger than shackles. She tells of her fate, Of what she has experienced, of her struggle. A quiet conversation, and in it all of her, Strong, gentle, like the spring moon.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00abForgotten Letters\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nForgotten letters, dust on the table, They contain lines of love that remained in the darkness. She writes to me of her melancholy, Of what she forgot in the cold river. I read the letters, and my heart aches, Of what is gone, what cannot be returned, cannot be lived out. Forgotten letters, a sad greeting, She remembers, and I only respond.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00abLone Star\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nA lonely star in the night sky, It shines on me, as if in you I see all the tenderness and beauty, And I believe in love that is stronger than a dream. She is lonely, but still strong, Like the woman in my heart. A lonely star, a sad motif, It shines on me, and I am its motif.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00abEcho of Love\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nEchoes of love in empty corridors, She's gone, leaving only arguments About what was, about what could have been, And a heart frozen in silence like glass. I seek her image in every face, But I see only a reflection of the love that has departed in the end, That was so bright and pure, And the memory of her, forever empty.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\u00abLast Look\u00bb<\/h2>\n
\nOne last look, and she's gone, To a world where there's no more sorrow or evil. I stand alone, in silence and melancholy, And I remember her in every line. She was my destiny, my dream, And without her the world has become gray and empty. One last look, and in my heart there's only pain. She's gone, and I've lost control.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a poet whose lyrics were always imbued with a passion for life, for humanity, and, of course, for women. His heroines<\/p>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[71],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1082","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stihi"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1082","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1082"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1082\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":174426,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1082\/revisions\/174426"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1082"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1082"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1082"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}