автограф
     пускай с моею мордою
   печатных книжек нет,
  вот эта подпись гордая
есть мой автопортрет

Stepanakert
                   Saga

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рукописи не горят!.. ...в интернете ...   

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    days:

December 7.

At 3a.m.detonation bangs in the lower town frightened Roozahna out of her bed and into a fit of uncontrollable jitter. Sahtik could hardly talk her into keeping calm.

Till six in the morning two more AlazanALAZAN —
     a missile contrivance for destroying hailstorm clouds which was easily converted into artillery weapon in the initial stages of the Karabakh war 1991-1994.
volleys ripped up the night. Ahshaut slept soundly through everything.

At dawn roaring monsters get back to their lairs giving it over to shrieky humans as those in the two noisy crowds scrambling at Twin Bakeries just opposite the three indefensibly large windows of our one-but-spacey-room flat.

All day long fluctuations in their squash-and-shout made a sea roll background to our domestic affairs.

Carina and Orliana, Valyo's wife, called in to leave their children at our place. Sahtik joined her two sisters and they went out to pay the last tribute to the demised first headmistress of them all (with respective intervals, of course).

The old lady lived next door to their mother's and died of natural causes.

I left for our Building Site to fetch a bagful of apples and an armful of the tree roots that I came across and chopped off when digging foundation trenches for our future house walls. They got dry enough to burn at tomorrow's barbecue.

On my way there I saw a pair of Soviet Army armor-vehicles bowling busily along, each one decked with a squad of 5 to 7 soldiers.

The braves had their mugs painted with combat smear which they obviously applied in quantities to fit their personal preferences—from a finger thick mud masks over the whole visage up to a moderate touch on the cheekbones. Tastes differ. However, no one had skipped the warpaint swarzenneggerization, not even their captain in a civilian woolly hat.
The the public gazing from the sidewalks seemed to enhance their self-esteem.

If some complete stranger to this place and time saw us dawdling or going about our daily chores amid the ever-present drumfire din in Krkjan he'd think it's a town of deaf.
Be not deceived by our detached looks, Mr. Stranger, we do hear the crazy shooting out around us and each one has—you bet!—his kind of inside funny feeling.

At 9 p.m. it became completely quiet. Some creepy quietness.

Am I not too commanding towards Roozahna?

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