Вершы. Філасофскія разважанні-25

 

                                                                                                             Аляксей Якімовіч

Усім аматарам вайны

 

Мы – жыхары зямлі,

                                                             Зямля ўсіх нас яднае.

                                                             Ды ёсць на ёй і тыя,

                                                             Хто войны пачынае.

 

                                                             Кажуць: зямля круглая,

                                                             Падобная на шар.

                                                             Чаму ж не скіне тых,

                                                             Хто любіць так пажар?

 

                                                             Прагныя яны.

                                                             Ім мала, мала, мала.

                                                             На край чужы, багаты

                                                             Глядзяць, як кот на сала.

 

                                                             Літасці не маюць,

                                                             Без сораму жывуць.

                                                             Тваё адзенне могуць,

                                                             Схапіўшы, апрануць.

                                                            

                                                             Белае чорным

                                                             Ім хочацца зрабіць,

                                                             Каб страшныя злачынствы

                                                             Узвысіць, пабяліць.

 

                                                             Гісторыю не любяць,

                                                             Стараюцца парваць.

                                                             Ім трэба на свой лад

                                                             Яе перапісаць.

 

                                                             Яны як кракадзілы.

                                                             Сплючы, могуць напасці.

                                                             Цяжка бараніцца

                                                             Ад гэтае напасці.

 

                                                             Ідуць, едуць, ляцяць,

                                                             Нібыта злыя духі:

                                                             Паскудныя, нахабныя,

                                                             Галодныя, як мухі.

 

                                                             Руіны, што пакінулі,

                                                             Ад праўды не схаваць.

                                                             Стагоддзямі сівымі

                                                             Іх будуць праклінаць.

 

                                                             У роднай Беларусі

                                                             Жывём пад мірным небам.

                                                             Таму мы не бядуем:

                                                             Заўжды са смачным хлебам.

 

                                                           Зямля сябруе з сонцам,
                                                              Усяму дае цяпло.

                                                           Не затуляйце, войны,

                                                           Спрадвечнае святло.

                                                                                   2025 год

                                                                                                       Аляксей Якімовіч

Лёс

 

    Іншы раз лёс чалавека

                                                           Да нябёс ўзнімае.

                                                           Сілу духа і жадання,

                                                           Мабыць, правярае.

 

                                                           Угары, над галавою,

                                                           Сонца разліваецца.

                                                           А унізе луг зялёны

                                                           Абрусам рассцілаецца.

 

                                                           Лёс нашэптвае на вуха,

                                                           Нібы просіць хлеба:

                                                          “Настаяліся мы тут.

                                                           Ужо спускацца трэба”.

 

                                                           А затым штурхець у плечы!

                                                            Свет перакуліўся!

                                                            На нагах не устаяўшы,

                                                            Быццам сноп, зваліўся.

 

                                                            Нібы мячык пругкі,

                                                            Коцішся з пагорка.

                                                            Ўсю душу палын накрыў.

                                                            Лёс рагоча: “Горка!”

 

                                                            Няма дзіўнага лужка.

                                                            Як той сон, прапаў.

                                                            Пагорак камяністы,

                                                            Як сілач, паўстаў.

 

                                                            У нізінцы, як у яме,

                                                            Бедакі ляжаць.

                                                            Знемагліся і здаліся.

                                                            Будзе гора гарцаваць.

 

                                                            Не хачу сядзець у брудзе,

                                                            Ціха плакаць, скавытаць

                                                            І на лёс чужы, зайздросны

                                                            З цёмнай ямы пазіраць.

 

                                                            Грудзі выгнуўшы дугою,

                                                            За руку свой лёс бяру.

                                                            “Лезь са мною, не адстану!” –

                                                            Яму строга гавару.

 

                                                            Удвух лезем на пагорак,

                                                            Хоць цямнее у вачах.

                                                            А прад самаю вяршыняй

                                                            Адступілі стома, страх.

 

                                                            Расцвітае на душы.

                                                            Я гляджу з пагорка.

                                                            Мне здаецца: на вяселлі

                                                            Людзі крычаць: “Горка!”

 

                                                            Нос не вешай, чалавек,

                                                            На свой лёс не наракай.

                                                            Як нявесту маладую,

                                                            За руку яго трымай.

                                                                                     2025 год