Vladimir Nyaklyaeu. Portrait against a lattice


Well, Dad, and we will communicate with you. Or on TV through "Belsat", so here is a Radio Liberty.

At the turn signal fires, telepathy and letters written in the margins of books milk prison library. Thank God, all know how to make the ink of the crumb. I've been planning to have a dovecote on the roof, just as long as the neighbors do not give the plan the go.
You know, after all that has happened, the prohibition of even a phone conversation at first seemed a trifle.

But time passes, and the fact that I can not hear your voice, to see how you're really feeling — it's hard, of course. Olga and lawyers tell me that you did not lose his presence of mind that you are not broken, you can even write something there.
Me all the time madly want to just sit down with you and talk over dinner or a game of poker, or even to walk silently along the bay.
But given the fact that when we finally meet with you, so you most likely will — we will go quietly, I again and the two words I can not say that I really think and feel, then let me try one here thing to say.

On the grave of Vasil Bykov

Looking for? Beautiful and courageous people with whom I have had the honor to meet? Because of all of this our common misfortune, I, of course, you do want as well as they bravely hold. I would learn from Darya Korsak as plain and simple, she said: "We will survive this regime." I do not want to also say something like that, like that "and it happens." And spit over his shoulder. But the truth is that what you and I do, then, what they do with all of us — this is the worst thing that I, a person of non-military generation ever seen in my life. Before my eyes constantly have the same picture, as you lie beaten, bloodied, in the snow, and every time I choke, I just can not breathe properly. And the fact that I was not there when your wife holding hands, and you dragged across the floor with the emergency room by a corridor suddenly extinct, I will never forgive myself.

But here just just because of this, I understand the need for a special clarity of your act — and anyone else who went to the Plaza. Because even I have not seen how widely has grown viscous, swampy evil in Belarus. Daily, routine evil that is so ingrained in our lives that are even comparing the situation with Kafka has already become a cliché.

I want to tell you that I am very proud of it. Now I am terribly proud of all that despite belarusami.Tamu? What we really love ourselves abuse for mlyavost, I'm nowhere and never seen so much stubbornness and heroism. Just as evil has become routine, heroism has become almost commonplace. Come to the area. Transfer to the prison to bring a stranger. Do not lie, if you really ask for. Do not break down, if you really crushed. Looking for? Persistence and courage of the people around, I can not believe that we'll meet again very soon.

With love, the daughter of Eve.





Olga Neklyaeva


As the shroud, a white-red-white
Was hovering over the fate of thy holy symbol …
If breathed in the Lord my soul to the body —
She got you.

You Belarusian Olga, You're a dream
Krivitskaya, You, blood is mine! ..
If you need a victim —
I'm her.


Not in vain, in vain …
Not all bad, that drags …
The wind,
to water
Perhaps someone secretly
Leads me to something.

Perhaps my way to jail
Deliberately twisted into a ball
For nitstsyu thread
Step by step …
Who is my vyadok? He is the servant of God,
Or servant of the devil — my vyadok?


…And the one who waved his arms,
We padyvayuchy, and the one
Who we are called —
They were your brothers,
You're not coming to their sister,
And when the darkness swallowed
Last whoop your brothers,
None of them you have not heard,
Did not see any of them,
Hidden in my arms,
Where I rocked you, shore,
Yes two bloodless, two moles
NOT stsalavav shoulders, could not …


Rain, in December unnecessarily
The connection between earth and sky

Signaler God took …

The loss in the loss …

Only with the eyes of the icon,
Before which stood a mother
Silence fell in the quiet house
Blame the tear.


Whose road? .. Draw.
And who is on the road? .. No one.
And so I felt the grace of God,
As if in a sultry afternoon I
Eliminated in the creek forest.

And I saw a shadow on the road,
On which it stood, without shade,
And I thought, "Dreams …" —
And in the shadow of those went to sleep for the day,
Curled up into a ball Divine handfuls.


Through the grate, over the barbed wire
At midnight, you smiled at me,
And I fell asleep —
and over wire
through the grate
With your smile


I dreamed that I was in prison, one
At eighteen cameras toilet.
The real dream was. And the prison — the real one.
In the morning. About six hours.

A six — rise! And the grim guard
Led to the toilet. Ledenelo
It crap. Tremors beat body
And dreams of flying away from the head.


As you do not want to live, you die.
Quite a few games. Raspas.
Prison yard for two three —
And five of us in it.

And in it — with you — all that he had,
And all that will be …



What is in the shower —
It is not known because no shisha
The soul does not take, but only from the body.

Here's body pashanku plows
And what about the body flew off —
No one will say she died.

Trite? ..
What do you want?


No matter how slow, no matter how persecuting horses
Neither crave to live up to oblivion —
Not enough to live your life
And you will live out the remains on death.

internal KGB prison


All the portraits on the background grid

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