Mail. Samuel Marshak

Who's knocking on my door
With a thick shoulder bag
With the number 5 on a copper plaque,
In a blue uniform cap?
It's him,
It's him,
Leningrad postman.
He has a lot today
Letters in a bag on my side, -
From Tashkent, Taganrog,
From Tambov and Baku.
At seven o'clock he started business,
At ten the bag lost weight,
And by twelve o'clock
I spread everything to the addresses.

Custom made from Rostov
For Comrade Zhitkov!
- Custom for Zhitkov?
Sorry, there is no such thing!
Flew to London yesterday
At seven fourteen in the morning.

Zhitkov abroad
Rushing through the air -
The ground turns green below.
And after Zhitkov
In the mail car
The registered letter is being carried.

Shelf packages
Are laid out with sense,
On the road, disassembly is underway
And two postmen
On the benches of the carriage
Rocking the night away.
Postcard - To Dubrovka,
Parcel - To Pokrovka,
Newspaper - To Rostov-on-Don.
Letter - In Bologoye.
But customized
Will go to a foreign country.

The letter itself
Won't go anywhere
But put it in the box -
It will run
Will fly by
Will float
Thousands of miles of path.

It's not hard to write
See the light:
He doesn't need a ticket.
For copper money
Will travel the world
Sealed
Passenger.

On the road it
Doesn't drink or eat
And only one
Is talking:
- Urgent.
England. London.
West 14, Bobkin Street.

Runs throwing a load
The bus is behind the bus.
Rocking on the roof
Posters and posters.
The ladder conductor yells:
- End of the route. Bobkin Street!

Down Bobkin Street, Down Bobkin Street
Mr. Smith is walking fast
In a postage blue cap,
And he himself is like a chip.

Goes to the fourteenth house,
Knocks with a hanging hammer
And he says sternly:
- For Mr. Zhitkov.
The doorman looks out from under his glasses
Name and surname
And he says: - Boris Zhitkov
I went to Brazil.

The steamer will depart
In two minutes.
Suitcases people
Took all the cabins.

But into one of the cabins
They are not carrying suitcases.
This is what will go there:
Postman and mail.

Under the palm trees of Brazil
I'm tired of the heat
The gray-haired Basilio walks,
Brazilian postman.

He holds the strange in his hand,
Crumpled letter.
On the stamp - foreign
Postage stamp.

And the inscription above the surname
That the addressee
Left Brazil
Back to Leningrad.

Who's knocking on my door
With a thick shoulder bag
With the number 5 on a copper plaque,
In a blue uniform cap?
It's him,
It's him,
Leningrad postman!
He holds out again
Custom-made for Zhitkov.
- For Zhitkov?
Hey Boris,
Receive and sign!

My neighbor jumped out of bed:
- That's a miracle indeed.
Look, the letter is behind me
The globe flew around the earth,
Raced across the sea in pursuit
It rushed to the Amazon.
They drove him after me
Trains and ships.
Along the seas and mountain slopes
It has come to me.

Honor and glory to the postmen,
Tired, dusty
Glory to honest postmen
With a thick shoulder bag!

Sadhu (hermit monk) Amar Bharti is today the only Indian saint who has kept his right hand raised for the last 39 years. The hand was raised not for the sake of an idle experiment, but was dedicated to the god Shiva, and, as a result, became a kind of symbol for the believing Indians.

Forty years ago, Amar was an ordinary ordinary citizen of India, burdened with the pleasant hardships of a family life that included a wife and three children. Utilitarian worries, like everyone else, a knurled route of work-home-shop and other delights of the average statistical life. But one fine night, for unknown reasons, Amar's worldview underwent a radical turn and, waking up, he decided to push his family into the background and put the service of Lord Shiva in the vacant place.

Dressed in simple clothes, the newly minted monk set out on the roads of India, living on alms and spending days and nights in unceasing prayer. After three years of wandering, it seemed to the sadhu that he was still in captivity of worldly delights, which naturally plunged the saint into incredible disappointment, and he decided to come up with something more cardinal in order to surrender himself to the service of Shiva in a more uncompromising way.

Then, in 1973, the right hand suffered, which was raised and never again lowered to this day. If you look closely at the photographs, you can see that the fingers of the famous hand are intertwined into a kind of fig, which Amar probably shows to all worldly sweets (well, not Shiva, after all).

For 39 years of being in an upright position, the joints of the right hand have become completely unusable, so that Bharti, even if he really wanted to, could not act with it. The nails on the holy hand are not trimmed, it is not known whether it is subjected to ablution. The owner of the hand admits that at first it was painful, but then the body got used to it and everything settled down.

But instead of the lost limb, the sadhu found harmony with the inner "I" and some other spiritual benefits inaccessible to mortals, so the undertaking was worth it. In addition to astral bonuses invisible to the eye, Amar had quite real ones - he became an all-Indian celebrity and is revered by believers as a saint of the highest standard, which, no doubt, is justified - many decided to take such a feat after such a glorious initiative, but the palm tree and the undoubted record of duration belongs only to him ...

In the English-language press there is a discrepancy in the saint's surname, so I am afraid to be mistaken - whether he is Bharati, or Bharti.

Who's knocking on my door

With a thick shoulder bag

With the number 5 on a copper plaque,

In a blue uniform cap?

Leningrad postman.

There are many

In a bag on the side

From Tashkent,

Taganrog,

From Tambov

At seven o'clock he started business,

At ten the bag lost weight,

And by twelve o'clock

I smashed everything to the addresses.

Custom made from Rostov

For Comrade Zhitkov!

Custom for Zhitkov?

Sorry, there is no such thing!

Where is this citizen?

I flew to Berlin yesterday.

Zhitkov abroad

Rushes through the air

The ground turns green below.

And after Zhitkov

In the mail car

The registered letter is being carried.

Shelf packages

Are laid out with sense,

On the road, the disassembly is going on,

And two postmen

On the benches of the carriage

Rocking all night long.

Postcard

To Dubrovka,

To Pokrovka,

To the Klin station.

In Bologoye.

But customized

Will go abroad - to Berlin.

4

There is a Berlin postman,

The last mail is loaded.

He is dressed in such a dandy:

Peaked cap with red piping.

On a navy blazer

Azure buttonholes.

He walks and holds in his hand

Letter from abroad.

All around the passers-by are in a hurry.

Cars rustle with tires,

One another is faster

Along the Linden Alley.

The postman leads to the door,

Bow to the old Swiss.

Letter to Herr Zhitkov

From number six!

Yesterday at eleven o'clock

Zhitkov left for England!

Won't go anywhere

But put it in the box

It will run

Will fly by

Will float

Thousands of miles on the way.

It's not hard to write

See the light:

No ticket needed.

For copper money

Will travel the world

Sealed

Passenger.

Doesn't drink or eat

And only one

14, Bobkin Street.

6

Runs throwing a load

The bus is behind the bus.

Rocking on the roof

Posters and posters.

The ladder conductor yells:

End of the route! Bobkin Street!

Down Bobkin Street, Down Bobkin Street

Mr. Smith is walking fast

In a postage blue cap,

And he himself is like a chip.

Goes to the fourteenth house,

Knocks with a hanging hammer

And he says sternly:

For Mr. Zhitkov.

The doorman looks out from under his glasses

Name and surname

And he says: - Boris Zhitkov

Went to Brazil!

7

In two minutes.

Suitcases people

Took all the cabins.

But into one of the cabins

They are not carrying suitcases.

This is what will go there:

Postman and mail.

Under the palm trees of Brazil

I'm tired of the heat

Don Basilio is walking,

Brazilian postman.

He holds the strange in his hand,

Crumpled letter.

On the stamp - foreign

Postage stamp.

And the inscription above the surname

That the addressee

Left Brazil

Back to Leningrad.

Who's knocking on my door

With a thick shoulder bag

With the number 5 on a copper plaque,

In a blue uniform cap?

Leningrad postman.

He holds out again

Custom-made for Zhitkov.

For Zhitkov?

Hey Boris,

Receive and sign!

My neighbor jumped out of bed:

That's a miracle indeed!

Look, the letter is behind me

The globe flew around the earth.

Raced across the sea in pursuit

It rushed to the Amazon.

They drove him after me

Trains and ships.

Along the seas and mountain slopes

It has come to me.

Honor and glory to the postmen,

Tired and dusty.

Glory to honest postmen

With a thick shoulder bag!

And the letters of happiness have not yet been translated in Russia! Astana healer, aka Zauresh (who vaguely reminded me of sauropods), without any helplessness, informed me that the letter had gone around the world 455 times in search of me, after which, with many exclamation marks, he began to insist that I "be sure to read the end of the letter", because "there is a secret tamo."

I was a little ashamed that Zauresh (I decided to assume that this is still a species of dinosaur) dragged along behind me with his message for so long, and I read the tamo. The secret was simple and lay in the fact that luck (again in search of me) went around the world 9 times. Through simple calculations, I found out that in the other four hundred and forty-six cases it was sheer bad luck, and I was glad that all this time I was able to successfully dodge it.

Drive away laziness and read, at the end you will say thank you !!! - the dinosaur wrote with anguish. Apparently, many niasilili. I obediently drove away laziness and washed, cleaned and generally did the housework for two whole days. Then I got lazy and finished reading.

The dinosaur wrote how a poor peasant woman, Tsigunova, four days after receiving the letter, dug up a treasure, then married Prince Golitsin and became a millionaire. While I was thinking, why the hell did the prince surrender to her in the presence of the treasure, although, of course, with such pigs you somehow become yourself .. zauresh warned that the three, seven and ace will win you a series of Xs, a game and two more- three mathematical symbols will bring good luck for nine years, that Marshal Tukhachevsky burned the letter and was shot (posthumously, in 1943 - he probably did not notice), and Conan Doyle did not print it, got into a disaster and both his hands were amputated. The tragic fate of Conan Doyle upset me so much that Dante, who, after halfway through earthly life, received twenty thousand dollars in 1929, was no longer particularly impressive, and Pugachev, who got the same amount, but in 1980, caused outright boredom.

The Girl from Kuntsevo, who rewrote the letter a hundred thousand times, was sorely lacking, after which HER WAS HELP (no other than correcting the spelling mark) and a Mexican character of a dubious sex, who was just about to rewrite, but put it off for later due to other pressing problems ( his brother gouging, although Mexican.) All further stories ended with a Big Freebie and were of little interest.

Not so: Don Pedro Gomez found a bottle with this letter at the southern tip of the Cape of Good Hope, where he caught trepangs for his supper .. or so: a grandmother died in one family and before she died she said: whatever you want to do, just don’t buy red curtains rewrite letters twenty times. But the girl did not obey and began to rewrite, and all her fingers became green and her hands fell off. Something like that.

Or, say, a poor peasant woman, Tsigunova, met qigong, and her third eye opened, her second mouth opened, and a hairy hand with fourteen fingers grew on the back of her head.

Because in such things there should be scope.

I wish you every happiness, and if someone suddenly undertakes to rewrite this twenty times, he will be left without arms, legs and ax.

Who's knocking on my door
With a thick shoulder bag
With the number 5 on a copper plaque,
In a blue uniform cap?
It's him,
It's him,
Leningrad postman.

Him
There are many
Letters
In a bag on the side
From Tashkent,
Taganrog,
From Tambov
And Baku.

At seven o'clock he started business,
At ten the bag lost weight,
And by twelve o'clock
I smashed everything to the addresses.

2

Custom made from Rostov
For Comrade Zhitkov!
Custom for Zhitkov?
Sorry, there is no such thing!
Where is this citizen?
I flew to Berlin yesterday.

3

Zhitkov abroad
Rushes through the air
The ground turns green below.
And after Zhitkov
In the mail car
The registered letter is being carried.
Shelf packages
Are laid out with sense,
On the road, the disassembly is going on,
And two postmen
On the benches of the carriage
Rocking all night long.

Postcard
To Dubrovka,
Package
To Pokrovka,
Newspaper
To the Klin station.
Letter
In Bologoye.
But customized
Will go abroad - to Berlin.

4

There is a Berlin postman,
The last mail is loaded.
He is dressed in such a dandy:
Peaked cap with red piping.
On a navy blazer
Azure buttonholes.
He walks and holds in his hand
Letter from abroad.

All around the passers-by are in a hurry.
Cars rustle with tires,
One another is faster
Along the Linden Alley.
The postman leads to the door,
Bow to the old Swiss.
Letter to Herr Zhitkov
From number six!
Yesterday at eleven o'clock
Zhitkov left for England!

5

Letter
Itself
Won't go anywhere
But put it in the box
It will run
Will fly by
Will float
Thousands of miles on the way.

It's not hard to write
See the light:
Him
No ticket needed.
For copper money
Will travel the world
Sealed
Passenger.
On the way
It
Doesn't drink or eat
And only one
Is talking:
Urgent.
England.
London.
West,
14, Bobkin Street.

6

Runs throwing a load
The bus is behind the bus.
Rocking on the roof
Posters and posters.
The ladder conductor yells:
End of the route! Bobkin Street!
Down Bobkin Street, Down Bobkin Street
Mr. Smith is walking fast
In a postage blue cap,
And he himself is like a chip.

Goes to the fourteenth house,
Knocks with a hanging hammer
And he says sternly:
For Mr. Zhitkov.
The doorman looks out from under his glasses
Name and surname
And he says: - Boris Zhitkov
Went to Brazil!

7

Steamer
Will move away
In two minutes.
Suitcases people
Took all the cabins.
But into one of the cabins
They are not carrying suitcases.
This is what will go there:
Postman and mail.

8

Under the palm trees of Brazil
I'm tired of the heat
Don Basilio is walking,
Brazilian postman.
He holds the strange in his hand,
Crumpled letter.
On the stamp - foreign
Postage stamp.
And the inscription above the surname
That the addressee
Left Brazil
Back to Leningrad.

9

Who's knocking on my door
With a thick shoulder bag
With the number 5 on a copper plaque,
In a blue uniform cap?
It's him,
It's him,
Leningrad postman.
He holds out again
Custom-made for Zhitkov.
For Zhitkov?
Hey Boris,
Receive and sign!

10

My neighbor jumped out of bed:
That's a miracle indeed!
Look, the letter is behind me
The globe flew around the earth.
Raced across the sea in pursuit
It rushed to the Amazon.
They drove him after me
Trains and ships.
Along the seas and mountain slopes
It has come to me.
Honor and glory to the postmen,
Tired and dusty.
Glory to honest postmen
With a thick shoulder bag!