Biography of A.V. rudenko

Victor Rudenko was born September 3, 1940 in the village of Dobropolye in the Donetsk region. Studied in Kiev state university them. T. G. Shevchenko. He worked in city and regional newspapers, in the magazine "Donbass" as an executive secretary.

Viktor Rudenko over the years creative activity published more than fifteen books of poetry and prose. These are poetry collections - “Wings over the sea”, “Do not go from the sea”, “Warmth of the native coast”, “Bread and coal”, “I will call - respond”, “Save my homeland”, “Ode to the beloved”, “Forgive me for love ”, “Days of the Black Star”, “Feat of Solitude” and others.

Fragments in his work are the theme of the distant Arctic, as well as our Sea of \u200b\u200bAzov. The poet thoroughly develops the theme of love for the fatherland, native land, designated by him as Good Field. It was here, in Dobropolshchyna, that he spent his childhood and youth, here are his genealogical roots and the graves of his ancestors. And he dedicated his best poems to them - “Native”, “Dobropolskaya Lilac”, “The Most short cut" other.

theme small homeland mostly permeated and book it selected works"Prayer for Love and Repentance" The writer published a book of prose - the story "The Tale of Saur-Mogila", and also prepared for publication a story-tale about the Good Field.

Laureate International Festival the words "wealth". Member of the National Union of Writers of Ukraine since 1983.

We present to your attention a poem from the first book of the poet "Wings over the Sea":
"Dobropolye"
Good field - Dobropolye.
Quiet, cloudless and warm.
Meet you kindly
Bread and salt
A green village.

Here it is, close to the heart and sweet,
With the song of the mill wing,
With the eternal silence of the mass grave,
What is in sight, in the middle of the village.

On the palisade of the beaten path,
Where on the sides - only swan grass,
Mom will come to the grave slowly,
So that my father smiles through the years.

Kind polyushko - Dobropolye!
In the midst of a radiant day
In the cry of the cuckoo cut through the pain
My memory.

- Dobropilska lilac[Text]: poem, ode, poetry / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Writers' Union of Ukraine; Journal. "Donbass", 1998. - 86 p. : ill., portr.
- Land of Sosyura[Text]: lines about the Little Motherland / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Kashtan, 2008. -404 p. : ill.
- Wings over the sea[Text]: poems / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Donbas, 1976. - 31 p. - (The first book of the poet).
- Don't go from the sea[Text]: poetry, poem / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Donbas, 1979. - 59 p.
- I'll call - respond[Text]: poetry, poem / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Donbas, 1989. - 135 p. : portrait
- Prose poet[Text]: [biography and position] / V. Rudenko // Pismenniki Donechchini: Dovіdnik / Order. I. O. Bily, S. V. Zhukovsky. - Donetsk: National Union of Writers in Ukraine; magazine "Donbas", 2005. - S. 308-313. - [Poems: "Letter from a front-line soldier", "Tenderness", "Girl Ukraine", "In the Good Field", "Epilogue"].
- Predzhnivyo[Text]: [poem] / V. Rudenko // Dzherela: an anthology of the works of participants in the literary associations of Donbass. - Donetsk: Journal "Donbas"; National collection of writers in Ukraine, 2012. - P. 147.
- The legend of Meotida. When the fish scream[Text]: [story] / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Lebed, 2005. - 154 p.
- Legend of Saur - Tomb[Text]: [story] / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Lebed, 1999. - 132 p. : ill., portr.
- The warmth of the native shore[Text]: poetry, poem / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Donbas, 1983. - 52 p.
- Bread and coal[Text]: poems and poems / Viktor Rudenko. - Donetsk: Donbas, 1986. - 71 p.

- In partnership with nature/ V. Rudenko // Vech. Donetsk. - 2013. - 2 Apr.
(No. 38). - S. 3. - [Poems: "Before spring", "Mists of days", "I don't want to be a debtor"].
- Reciprocity of soul and word/ V. Rudenko // Vech. Donetsk. - 2014. - March 4 (No. 26). - S. 3. - [poem "Getters of the past"].
- Donbass, His Majesty: [Poem] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2007. - No. 2. - S. 46-47.
- “Cry, we laugh ...”: [poems] / V. Rudenko // Position. - 2005. - July 1-8 (No. 25). - S. 8. - [“The soul is blooming”, “Without light”].
- From the notebook of life: [poems] / V. Rudenko // Reflection. -2005. - No. 7. - S. 15-18.
- paternal name: Poetry // Vech. Donetsk. - 2012. - 4 Feb. (No. 14). - p. 3.
- Cute: [Poem] / V. Rudenko // Position. - 2006. - March 3-10 (No. 9). - p. 8.
- One poet sat on a thousand ...: [Poem to Boris Oleinik] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2010. - September 7 (No. 104). - S. 11.
- Poetry: [poems: "Snow - on the ground, people to God." “God forbid!”] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2008. - February 2 (No. 22). - S. 12.
- The garden of our era: [From poetry notebook] / V. Rudenko // Vech. Donetsk. - 2007. - Sept. 1 (No. 129). - p. 3.
- Soldier's son: [poem] / V. Rudenko // Position. - 2010. - No. 17. - P. 4.
- Triptych of Memory: [poems] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2007. - 12 Jan. (№7)/ - C. 15.
- Mining city, unforgettable friends: [poems] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2006. - November 2 (No. 202). - S. 31.

The life and work of the poet Viktor Rudenok:

- Vovenko, V. How strings are tempered/ V. Vovenko // Vech. Donetsk. - 2010. - September 3 (No. 102). - S. 19-20. - [About the father of the don. poet V. Rudenko - front-line soldier P. T. Rudenko].
- Vovenko, V. The beginning of autumn, apple fall .../ V. Vovenko // Donbass. - 2007. - September 1 (No. 161). - S. 12. - [Interview].
- Krivtsun, A. Donbass begins with us/ A. Krivtsun // Donbass. - 2012. - 9 Feb. (No. 16). - P. 25. - [Presentation of a new book by V. Rudenko "The Desperate Side"].
- Kudryavtseva, S. Good Field - love for life/ S. Kudryavtseva // Municipal newspaper (Formerly Our house +). - 2010. - March 12 (No. 10). - P. 3. - [About the new book by V. Rudenko "The Call of the Good Field"].
- Lyubimov, N. Meeting with a fellow countryman poet/ N. Lyubimov // Position. - 2011. - No. 43. - P. 4. - [A meeting with Viktor Rudenko was held at the Central Bank of Dobropolye].
- Rudenko, V. The poet was met by countrymen/ V. Rudenko // Vech. Donetsk. -2011. - November 15 (No. 131). - P. 3. - [In the district library of the city of Dobropolye took place creative evening V. Rudenko. Poems from the new book "Desperate Land"].
- Rudenko, V. Trace of memory/ V. Rudenko // Position. - 2008. - January 17 (No. 2). - S. 7. - [V. Rudenko about V. Lyakhov's work about miners].
- Rudenko, V. The poet's talent is certified/ V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2007. - April 18 (No. 72). - S. 15. - [V. Rudenko about the work of E. Nefedorev and the poem dedicated to him "The Light Ahead"].
- Turkin, N. On the main positions of time/ N. Turkin // Position. - 2010. - No. 39. - P. 4. - [About the new book by V. Rudenko "The Snowstorm of Fate"].

Born on January 1, 1955 in the village of Rusalovka, Cherkasy region. Father - Rudenko Viktor Grigoryevich - engineer, mother - Rudenko Maria Ivanovna - teacher, teacher of mathematics. Considering the nature of the father's work (his, the chief engineer of the RTS, later - the head of the Selkhoztekhnika department, and then the Selkhozkhimiya regional association), the family often had to move. Because he went to school in the village. Lisnyak, Cherkasy region, in grades 3-6 he studied in Butsk high school, and grades 7-10 - in Mankovskaya secondary school. Studying was easy, he studied without "fours" and in 1971 he graduated from school with a gold medal. In the same year he entered the medical faculty of the Kiev medical institute(now National medical University) them. O.O. Bogomolets. He dreamed of being a doctor since childhood, and in the family this profession was considered very honorable. Mom dreamed that her sons would become doctors, and grandfather Grigory Yakovlevich worked as an accountant in a hospital and had great respect for doctors. Obviously, these moods were passed on to his sons, so he never imagined himself as anyone other than the doctor. Although there was an alternative - in the 10th grade he became a finalist of the All-Union Competition for Young Journalists and could become a student of the Faculty of Journalism without exams. But medicine prevailed. The years of study in the capital's university were rich and vibrant. In the first year, I really liked such disciplines as anatomy, physiology, pathological physiology. Considering that the first three years at the medical school are taught only theoretical disciplines, was afraid that it would be difficult in practical activities, therefore, after classes, I went to hospitals and learned to give injections, perform caterizations, and so on. From the second year I began to go to the clinic of faculty surgery at night (in the days when the clinic was on duty in the city). For the first months I looked closely, then they used a young student as an orderly, but after about a year I began to participate in operations - of course, as the 3rd (and not very necessary) assistant, but then - as the second, and in simple operations - and as the first assistant. I saw myself only as a surgeon and did everything to achieve the goal. Was a member of the student scientific community, head of the surgical circle. He made his first independent operation during clinical practice, being a 4th year student. But the passion for surgery did not interfere with learning - for all six years of study at record book there was not a single “four”, and in 1977 he received a diploma with honors, a referral to work as a surgeon in the Cherkasy emergency hospital medical care and a recommendation for scientific activity(while still studying at the medical institute, he spent the first Scientific research and published his first work). The direction for scientific activity came in handy when, in connection with the reorganization of the emergency hospital, I had to independently look for a job. At the interview, the head of the clinic for cardiac surgery N.N. Amosov asked about studies, about scientific work and warned that the work in the clinic would not be easy. So from the beginning of 1978 and until that time, all activities related to the clinic of cardiac surgery, which eventually became the NGI of cardiovascular surgery, and now - National Institute cardiovascular surgery. N.N. Amosov Academy of Medical Sciences of Ukraine. I was lucky to work under the guidance of two outstanding scientists - the first director of the Institute, Acad. Amosova N.N. and his follower - acad. Knyshova G.V. Gennady Vasilyevich Knyshov was the head PhD thesis(1985), and later doctoral (1996). The doctoral dissertation was devoted to surgical treatment infective endocarditis. It was absolutely new topic dedicated to the treatment of a pathology little known at that time.

In 1994, he headed the newly created department of surgical treatment of infective endocarditis, in which more than 1500 interventions were performed for this complex pathology. Developed in the process of studying this problem, methods of treating infective endocarditis made it possible to achieve the best results in the world - mortality and recurrence rate in the surgical treatment of infective endocarditis at the institute is 5-7 times lower than in the best Western clinics.

In 1999, the director of the institute, G.V. Knyshov offered to head the department of surgical treatment of coronary artery disease. At that time, the results of IHD surgery at the institute were worse than in Western clinics, and the number of such interventions was insufficient. When appointing, obviously, the results of the work of the department of infective endocarditis and the fact of an internship for several months in Germany in the clinic of prof. R.Kerfer - one of the leading clinics in Europe, the main contingent of which were patients with IHD. It is in this clinic and precisely prof. Kerfer operated on N.N. Amosov - we then had neither the equipment for such operations, nor the experience of such interventions.

The analysis of lethality showed that a significant part of fatal complications is somehow associated with the use of artificial circulation - the exclusion of this component from the process of coronary bypass surgery promised to improve the results of treatment. But this required a radical change in the methodology - to switch to operations on a beating heart. The department managed to analyze, master and improve the best world experience of such interventions in a short period of time. Since 2001, almost all coronary bypass operations at the Institute of Cardiovascular Surgery without the use of cardiopulmonary bypass. This made it possible to reduce postoperative mortality by more than 10 times - today it is 3-4 times lower than in clinics. Western Europe and USA. The technique of interventions on a beating heart allows early activation of patients - they can be discharged home as early as 5-6 days after heart surgery. Both in terms of the number of operations on a beating heart and the quality of interventions, the clinic is among the leaders in world cardiac surgery.

For recent years Methods for the treatment of left ventricular aneurysms, one of the most complex and dangerous complications of myocardial infarction, were also developed and improved. Their introduction made it possible to reduce mortality to 1-1.5%, while even in the USA it is 7-9%. More than 150 such interventions are performed annually, which is the largest number in the world. Achieving this level is a great merit of the entire staff of the department, each employee of which contributed to this amazing result.

Scientific, practical, creative work continues. New areas of cardiac surgery have been created and are being successfully developed. The successes that have been achieved have been noted State Prize Ukraine, the title of Honored Worker of Science and Technology of Ukraine. In 2009 he was elected a corresponding member of the National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine.

Scientific and practical work takes almost all the time, but the family treats this with understanding, because most of the relatives and family members are doctors. Brother Leonid - cardiologist, head of the infarction department, wife Nadezhda - doctor medical sciences, deputy Director of the Center for Pediatric Cardiology and Cardiac Surgery, son Sergei, daughter-in-law Tatiana, nephew Nikolai, brother's wife Lilia are also doctors. Daughter Olga, although she has economic Education, helps a lot in organizing work, especially in international cooperation. Grandchildren are growing up - we hope they will also continue the dynasty of doctors.

Yuri Rudenko. Autobiography.

I was born in Vinnytsia, as we say in Ukraine, "on the podill". In the small provincial town of Gaisin on April 29, 1972, I was very lucky, because my mother gave birth to my first, and twenty minutes later my brother Victor was born. Since then, we have been together for life, twin brothers!

We grew up in the village of Kiblich, Gaysinsky district, where we graduated from high school.

From the age of 12, I learned to play the guitar, picked up simple chords for yard songs. The desire was very great. Growing up, the repertoire of songs changed. Having got acquainted with the work of V.S. Vysotsky, Yu. Vizbor, A. Severny, A. Rosenbaum, a lot had to be rethought and understood. Listening to them on cassette recorders, I wanted to imitate and learn in some way. It was beautiful time youth, romance, the time of personality formation, the time of first love.

School years were good start to implement the first creative possibilities- This is participation in various amateur art competitions.

In 1989, after graduating from secondary school, he tried with his brother to enter the Kiev pop- circus school Class: Vocal Singing. Unfortunately they didn't. After that, my brother and I went to work in the North in Tyumen region Nefteyugansk city.

In the autumn of 1989, he met with the wonderful creative guys of the KSP "Doroga". Participated in various skits, as well as regional festivals of bard songs. In this club, communicating with interesting people, I first tried my hand at writing my own songwriting. A big thank you to all those who supported me.

1990-1992 - service in the Army, signal troops, where again we two brothers were together. The love for the song with the guitar never faded. Somehow during the service, my brother and I had the idea to organize a concert in memory of V.S. Vysotsky. We went to a meeting, we approached this event with great responsibility. The concert was a success, everyone was very pleased, and it was nice to realize that the memory of the great poets of our time is alive.

After the Army, study in White church, mastered the specialty of radio mechanics.

From 1995 to the present day I have been living and working in the North in the city of Nefteyugansk. Since 1997, he began to write his own songs and poems. I have a family - my beloved wife Svetlana, two children are growing up, son Bogdan and daughter Vladislav.

In 2007 he took part in 1 regional competition"Chanson of the Year" TNT

I am always in search of new ideas, style, manner of performance. I'll be honest, it's very difficult. But something can be done with the help of my friends, musicians, arrangers. Huge thanks to them! Special thanks to Igor Ryazanov, who has been helping me record my songs for many years.

I always try to sincerely convey to the listener my thoughts, poems in a musical form that is pleasant to the ear.

After all, as Leonid Bykov said: "Everything comes, but music is eternal."

Y. Rudenko

Official website: http://rudenko-shanson.ru

Poet

Dorr had never seen the outlanders before, but he had heard much about them from seasoned wanderers. Therefore, he was not surprised to see a man lying in the dust on the side of the road. Cautiously approaching, he pushed the toe of his boot in the side. There was no reaction. Dorr repeated his attempt to push the lying man, turning him over to face the sky. Covered with dirt, covered in scratches and bruises, it seemed vaguely familiar to Dorr, as if forgotten in a childhood far, far away. -- Who are you? What is your name? asked Dorr, and shook the dirty clods off the stranger's cheek. He lifted his blood-smeared and dusty eyelids, his clinging lips parted in an almost noiseless whisper: "I... I don't remember." Dorr nodded in satisfaction. It was normal, absolutely normal for a stranger in another world. Usually while traveling through the spiral of time spatial thinking lags behind the material embodiment of the body, and a person cannot immediately orient himself in the new reality surrounding him. - Can you get up? The stranger shook his head vaguely, slightly raised himself on his elbows, but fatigue pulled him down. “Understood,” Dorr said. He lifted the bag hanging over his shoulders and took out short rope . In fact, it was more correct - a chitinous rope. It was woven from insect skeleton microparticles and in itself was an extremely strong material, and chemical additives introduced into the polysaccharide gave it extraordinary elasticity. Dorr looped the rope around the stranger's waist, and bandaging his right wrist, heaved the unforeseen burden onto his shoulder. At the same time, the bag had to be moved to the side, but it was tolerable. It turned out to be much more difficult to go up the slope with such luggage. The stranger whispered something. Dorr didn't understand, but just in case, he said, "Be quiet." And so hard. Roland sank wearily onto the stone steps of the tower and looked sadly at the gates. A battering ram thumped against the metal-bound doors, causing the hinges to creak dangerously. A little more, and they will not survive. Then countless hordes of demons, demons, devils will break into the Citadel. There will be so many of them that you won't even have to cut down the remaining defenders - they will simply trample them down. The gate was hit again. This time, a shallow but noticeable crack ran along the wooden surface, slightly separating two adjacent sheets of metal. The hinges, however, held out again. Roland took a deep breath. It didn't take long. Enough of the next blow, it will be the last. The fight will be fierce, but very short. Everyone who is able to hold a weapon has long been on the walls and in the courtyard, silently preparing for death. Behind the barracks, near the Passage, the most skillful and experienced, about ten people, are now gathering. They have the most difficult task - not to interfere, no matter what happens after the gate is demolished. They must wait and protect the Passage. Even when they begin to cut out the remnants of the garrison before their eyes. Even when the fiery creatures of the Underworld break in, and the insane flames cover everything around, devouring the only stronghold of Light in this wilderness - the Misty Citadel. The road gradually curved and increased the angle of ascent. The walk was difficult, but bearable. The only obstacle was the bag, which dangled restlessly and regularly slipped off the shoulder. But Dorr coped with this problem during a short halt: he simply bandaged the straps in a different way and wrapped them around his chest. The foreigner hung silently at first, as he was asked. But then curiosity got the better of it. He began to ask questions about the world he had entered, asked about people, was interested in history. Dorr answered the first two bells with short, incomprehensible phrases, hoping that the stranger would calm down and stop asking questions. However, his companion turned out to be more persistent, and, having passed two and a half banners, Dorr nevertheless began to tell. “We live in the wilderness. Here, by and large, there is no vegetation, only small shrubs and occasionally needle smogs. Of the shrubs, melhi and is-smagi are widespread ... Dorr could tell a long and interesting story about the nature of his world, because he liked it. There were those who hated the barren wastelands and the mountain ranges carved with narrow paths, but he always, even as a small child and without realizing it himself, loved them. And each time, embarking on another journey, he involuntarily sought to see again the boundless freedom of the desert and the luminary drowning in it. - We do not have a constant flow of time, because the luminary changes every two cycles. Never before has it happened again. Cycles can be short or long, it depends on the rains. Each time after the end of the first cycle and before the beginning of the second, a period of rains begins, it also lasts differently, but basically - exactly half the time of the first cycle. It's hard to say why, but the fact remains. - Do you have a night? asked the stranger. -- What? Dorr didn't understand. -- Night. Well... when there is no light. “Ah, I understand. With the end of the second cycle, the luminary disappears, and darkness sets in. It always costs a quarter of the second cycle, no more and no less. By the time we get to the camp, there will be a period of darkness. You'll see for yourself - it's even beautiful. -- No doubt. Dorr looked at the stranger in surprise. After all, he still met few strangers, very few. Others might not find it so strange. "You still don't remember your name?" -- No, not yet. Tell us about your camp, what do you do in general? Dorr shrugged. - Yes, nothing special. We only play the role of guides, although we ourselves prefer to call ourselves - wanderers. The Foggy Citadel was built at the very dawn of time. Its construction was carried out by the strongest magicians and outstanding architects of their time. It is unlikely that anyone else remembered how long the construction went on and, even more so, how many workers were buried in the foundation and walls. Also, no one could say what ancient and strong spells tied together eight magical shields that protected the fortress from any witchcraft. The Citadel was located at the very edge of the Wild Steppes, separated from the rest of the world by long winding chains of high mountain ranges. The length of the mountains was not exactly known to anyone, but everyone knew that they could only be passed in one place - where two sorcerers had long ago met in a fierce duel, covering the space for miles around with a fiery shower. The heat was so strong that the earth cracked, the sorcerers fell into Hell, and the black charred top of the high mountain split in two, forming a deep narrow gorge - the only way in the Wild Steppes. Since then, for centuries, people have guarded the Black Passage, holding back the onslaught of unknown creatures, generated by the flames of the Underworld and found their way to the surface in the heart of the desert dunes. Wanderers appeared almost immediately after the arrival of the first stranger. When the first stranger came, no one knew. Dorr only remembered that he had decided to become a wanderer because of his father, no matter how trite it seemed. It was the father, who left with the sunrise and returned only after a few cycles, who did not worry about either his wife or children, who did this strong influence on the little boy that he decided to reject the warmth of his native hearth and set off on a journey from his youth ... The wanderers were not the embodiment of some prestigious profession, they were not a respected segment of society and were never considered heroes. But no one would ever dare to express their disrespect to the wanderer, even if he was shorter, already in the shoulders or simply younger. Wanderers were everything and nothing at the same time, they did not cause admiring glances and exclamations, but the existence of the whole world depended on them. “We are like the spirits of the hearth, guarding the house from all evil,” said Dorr, involuntarily smiling at such a comparison. "Yes," agreed the stranger. He lay on the rocks and looked into grey sky. As Dorr explained, it was his natural color. It looked very strange and unusual - a gray sky without any hint of clouds. Strange, unusual and, perhaps, in its own way beautiful. “We have to go,” said Dorr, rising from the ground. “We need to get there before dark.” The gate held longer than Roland had expected. They were beaten up deep night, but apart from cracks and several fallen off plates of metal, no harm was done. The hinges also creaked with every blow, but they held. “My lord,” the militiaman addressed the knight. - Milord. Harald dies. Roland silently got up from the steps and walked towards the barracks. Inside the Citadel there were only a few buildings needed for a distant frontier post. Among them stood out narrow and long barracks, squat warehouses, an armory and a thin high turret of a combat magician. At the very Passage, a sentry was perched on the slope of the mountain. It was stuffy in the barracks, the smell of blood hung unbearably in the air, groans and curses were heard from different parts. Now, when all the combat-ready hold the defense, the seriously wounded and dying have gathered here. Most were already exhausted, but a few feverish ones still suffered in delirium. Roland walked to the far corner of the room. Harald lay on a simple bunk of rough planks, on sheets soaked with sweat. He had grown terribly thin and aged during those two days; he was unable to hide the pallor of his face even long years military campaigns tan. He noticed the approach of the knight, and his lips parted in a sad smile, exposing bleeding gums - in the last battle almost all of his teeth were knocked out. “Forgive me, my lord. I never died as a hero. "You're already a hero," Roland said, sitting down on the edge of the yellow sheet. “A duty fulfilled to the end is worth a thousand heroic deeds, my friend. I am very proud that I had such an assistant. I will pray to God for your soul. - Thank you, my lord. You know - I tried. - Yes, my friend... Going outside, Roland looked at the stars for a long time, not noticing how tears flowed down his cheeks. At the far end of the barracks, not a man died - hope ... They managed to get to the camp. The luminary has gone, stepping in their footsteps. And darkness reigned... Dorr put the stranger in the Elder's tent and went to his room. Before he had time to doze off, the Senior pushed, lifted and led out of the camp. - Did you talk to him? -- Yes. And what? The elder looked up. - What did you tell him? "A little about nature," replied Dorr. - About people - very little. About cycles. -- All? -- All. So what happened? The elder answered a question with a question: - You did not notice that he knows our language? “Of course…” began Dorr, and then trailed off. In fact, it didn't occur to him. Most of the strangers could not understand a word of the strangers' speech. Even their townspeople did not fully understand them. -- That's it! Senior chuckled. "Do you know why he can't walk?" "Weakness," Dorr suggested already hesitantly. -- Not. He has burns all over his body, and his feet are charred to the bone. Didn't notice? Dorr didn't answer. Good wanderer... - In the last half a thousand cycles, no one has heard of such a thing, - the Elder said thoughtfully, sitting down on a large and smooth stone. "For the first time in five hundred cycles?" -- Yeah. To be honest, for the first time in our history. An ancestor told me that such a stranger had never appeared before. "Did you summon the spirits?" -- Yes. The elder looked around. - What was I to do? -- I do not know. So I... I don't know. The sun rose and hung between the two battlements of the high wall. A new morning began, and with it came new challenges. Roland scowled at the Citadel from a high roof corner tower and his heart trembled uneasily. After a few moments, a ram will hit the gate leaves, and enemies will climb onto the walls. What will happen then? Who can resist the thousands of infernal creatures? Twenty-three wounded and tired militia, armed somehow? Three surviving officers, two of whom only today rose from their beds to die in battle? Eight proven fighters who miraculously survived in this meat grinder? A magician who went mad on the second day of the siege? Or the bard who joined them on the way, who, however, turned out to be a good archer? “Lord, forgive us,” the knight whispered, “if we couldn’t. You see everything... we honestly serve Your Light... At that moment, a battering ram thumped into the gate, the doors trembled. Roland shouted down: "Hold on, brothers!" Coming last Stand ! And he ran up the stairs. Taran scored more often, more assertively. The gates were shaking, the hinges were shaking, striving to fly out altogether. Above the crests of the wall appeared the first thin poles of stairs. Everywhere behind the reliable hardness of a thousand-year-old stone, a many-voiced horde screamed terribly. She longed for blood and was eager to demolish, grind, destroy any memory that once in the Darkness of the Wild Steppes the Misty Citadel stood proudly and indestructibly - a particle of Light ... Roland ran out in time - the gate could not stand it. The battering ram smashed the center, broke through several boards, knocked out the metal, and the wings parted to the sides. A real river of demons poured inside, small, dodgy. The first row of defenders was demolished, but the second, having taken the whole stream on spears, was able to stop and delay. Help came to the rescue squeezed into the thick, began to chop with axes and swords. The wave of demons choked and rolled back, leaving a mountain of crippled bodies. The corpses of the guards flew from above - the devils easily took possession of the entire wall, began to storm the left tower. But the three militias and the bard, who had settled there, fought back, drove them away for a while, pelting them with stones and dousing them with boiling water. Then the devils rushed to the right tower, but they were met with lances, pushed back, partially thrown off the wall. New crowds poured through the breach. This time, demons were driven into battle - large horned freaks. Roland himself led the remnants of the garrison in a retaliatory attack. They converged almost at the very wall, mixed in a disorderly cabin, throwing each other to the ground, trampling and tearing each other apart. Roland fought ahead. He was able to decapitate one enemy, wounded another, but then a black arrow with a toothy tip dug into his shoulder, tearing the chain mail. The demon's heavy fist came down from above, breaking the sword and knocking him to the ground. Roland shook his head deafeningly. Another body descended from above, covering half the world. Slowly, as if in a hazy dream, the demon stepped over and just as slowly crushed someone's head. Roland saw skull fragments and red blobs float through the air. The sound seemed to disappear for a brief moment. Then everything returned: screams, groans, curses, the roar of demons and the squeak of demons, the sound of collapsing blades, the gnashing of claws, the crackle of tearing flesh and breaking bones. There was an unbearable smell of blood: fresh human and musty, fetid - of demons. Suddenly it got dark - another defeated fell, obscured everything, leaving only a feeling of infinite peace and detachment. Somewhere above the bodies were walking, jumping, running and trampling, falling and jumping up again, falling again, this time already dead, new ones appeared to replace them, they also died ... Roland almost did not hear anything, he was filled up with corpses and filled with someone else's blood. My ears were squelching, and it was difficult to breathe because of the gurgling foam in my nostrils. He began to suffocate, a heavy pile from above crushed with all his weight, drowned into the yellow-red sea, slowly and calmly immersed him in a pink mist... The light hit his eyes sharply, in an instant. Roland opened his eyelids as the ugly demon carcass was pulled from him. “My lord,” Gerd spoke quickly, terribly moving his torn lips and tensing with every movement of the muscles of his cut face. -- We won. They're retreating..." He helped Roland to his feet and pressed the pieces of his own lieutenant's cloak to his cheek. -- How? Roland asked hoarsely, wiping the red mush from his face. "Mage," Gerd answered curtly. Roland looked around. Yes, indeed - a magician. The whole yard is littered with bodies, abandoned weapons, stumps and pieces of demons, devils, people ... Broken spears and arrows stick out of heaps of flesh. There is so much blood that even the walls are splattered several feet up. Roland raised his head. Between the teeth lie and hang dead creatures, yellow and black blood solid lines curls down towards the ground. The doors of the right tower are taken out, at the entrance - whole mountain corpses. There is no flag on the tower itself, but no enemies are visible either. The left one remained intact. Sitting on the ridge, wearily dangling his legs, a bard. His leather jacket is splattered with black and tattered. In one hand there is a broken bow, in the other an arrow without plumage, which, apparently, he fought at the end. Roland looked to where the gate had been in the morning. Not even a hole left. Solid black failure, destroyed stone and blackened earth mixed with melted cobblestones. And the ashes left from those who did not see that the magician casts a fire spell. Further, leaving for the Steppes, stretched a long line of charred meat - fiery death managed not only to endure central part walls, but also burn half the hellish hordes. The magician himself lay nearby, pierced by a javelin. His hands were twisted, drawing some complex symbol, and his lips were twisted in a silent scream. He was preparing a new spell, but did not have time. Roland sat down. Bloody mud champed under him, the same warm, but already stone, got under his back. The knight closed his eyes. “Lord... I trust in You... Our pure light... Our righteous path... Our heavenly peace... A sleepy evening slowly crept into the gap, blowing coolness. With him came the saving darkness, hiding the dying Citadel from greedy eyes enemies. The white circle of the moon crawled out from behind the clouds and looked from above with the pale light of the dead. Roland once more turned around and looked at the stone-filled passage. pieces rock lay indestructible and safe, they will remain here for the next few years, until the magicians and builders take up the construction of a new fortress, and the Union does not allocate a new garrison to protect dangerous frontiers. It is right that now they are leaving, bringing terrible news to peaceful people: the Foggy Citadel has fallen. It is correct that the passage was blocked. It is right that there were those who wanted to stay and cover the retreating. And rightly so, Roland forbade them to stay. Everything is right, everything is fine... But the orders and prohibitions of the knight did not apply to the bard. He simply did not leave, without disputes and proofs of his innocence. He simply sat down on a large fragment of the destroyed masonry near the breach and shook his head negatively at Roland's attempt to convince him to leave with them. “I am not a soldier,” he said. But you fought! - I don't have commanders. I ask, not command. - I go when and where I want. "Then come with us!" - I can't... And I don't want to. He turned away from the knight and began silently looking somewhere into the dark distance. It was pointless to say anything else, and Roland left. Already on the other side of the blockage, he shouted: - You are a soldier! Just not our war. The bard heard and smiled. The knight did not even suspect how right he was. Maybe someday, in some distant side of the world, dying and not regretting a single day lived, he will understand himself, now sadly bowed in the saddle, leaving behind an insurmountable stone wall a strange man-bard who has committed the most senseless act of all that he observed ... A dry and at the same time cold wind rushed into the courtyard, swept through the dead, disturbing the fabric and stroking the wool, creaking with pierced armor and whistling about severed horns, carefully sprinkled sand that had not yet cooled down. The bard followed him, seeing him off with a thoughtful look, and whispered: “There are two of us again, my friend. Isn't it so much easier? The wind rushed by and with a cool touch answered "Yes". - I'm glad we're together. And you? The same answer. "Do you think it's worth waiting until morning?" The wind rustled across the sand. "Of course you're right," the bard nodded in agreement. -- Let's go to. He got up and walked out through the gap. The steppe greeted me with the bitter smell of burnt meat. The black earth underfoot responded with firm resilience, throwing up fountains of ash with every step. The bard did not pay attention - the wind was with him, he saved, enveloping and nailing the ashes back to the ground. He was only friend. He was preparing to be him... After a few miles, the sand ran out. Further, in a cloud of floating air, a whole sea of coals shone with dim lights. The bard sighed, gathering his strength and listening to the wind circling overhead, clenched his fists and stepped onto the fiery path. At first, my feet just felt warm, very warm. After some time, the boots began to smoke, smoldering. Then they caught fire, weakly and reluctantly burning the last bits of soles that were relatively intact. Then the feet burned, the skin flared up, and the meat melted, hissing. -- Sky! exclaimed the bard, swallowing back his tears. -- Do not leave! And the wind readily swirled around, touched the cheek. “Heaven,” the bard continued to mutter, never stopping for a moment. Don't cry with me, please. Cry for me. After... The heat surrounded him and burned his body. In several places, the trousers and jacket darkened, steaming, suffocating along with it. The coals began to jump, striving to get into the face, burn out the eyes. His legs could hardly move, turning into one continuous accumulation of nerves roaring and dying from tension ... But he walked, because a person does not know how to fall while he can walk ... - Well, hello, warrior of Light, - calm and the demon greeted in a low voice and bowed its red horned head. “Hello, warrior of Darkness,” said the bard. He arrived. Didn't fall, didn't burn out completely, like a match, didn't die ahead of time, but reached... - You are stronger than those mortals who went beyond the mountains. And those who came before you... But you are also mortal. Strong, but still human. - Yes ... There was no strength for more. The pain ceased to exist a long time ago, only immense fatigue and emptiness remained. But it was still necessary to survive, not to collapse. Need to find the words so needed now. Those who were waiting for the immortal ruler of the Wild Steppes. - you passed long way, Human. I am impressed. None of my servants could repeat such a feat. Tell me, why is Light so much better than Darkness? The bard licked his parched lips with a tongue that had no moisture on it, and said what he carried through so many obstacles: - Nothing ... The demon looked at the man in surprise. Interest appeared in the red eyes for the first time in a long ribbon of centuries. “You surprised me, mortal. No one has ever answered like that... - I'm not a warrior of the Light. The demon looked at him in disbelief. little man in a field of fire. “I am not a warrior of the Light,” repeated the bard. “You are not a warrior of Darkness. The demon laughed. -- I understood you. Are you saying it's the other way around? -- Not. The demon stopped laughing. "Then who do you think I am?" -- You are me. - Are you me? -- Yes. And no. The demon sighed. His breath scattered the nearest embers, freeing the ground from the burning mantle. The bard took several agonizing steps as he entered the circle. "You've done the impossible, human," the demon said. You have managed to intrigue me. Now explain your words. The bard sat down on the warm and dry earth, stretched out his charred legs. And he spoke: - I am not a warrior of Light and you are not a warrior of Darkness. Light and Darkness, in general, do not exist. They appear where we need them and disappear when we want them to. You cannot always be kind, you can only do an act that will be considered good. You can't be evil forever, but one nasty prank and you'll be called bad. Everything is very simple, demon... - You say that there is no Light and Darkness. Then who am I? And who are you, who came to speak to me? We are mirrors. Just mirrors reflecting what others want to see. The demon lowered his eyelids, considering what had been said. “What were you doing among your own people, human?” - I am a bard. - Poet? -- Yes. “Read me one of your poems, poet. -- Which? - What do you think is necessary. The bard looked up at the sky. It glowed crimson from the burning embers all around, but even that couldn't hide the stars blazing in the blackness. He walked all day, burned his legs, burned his face, hands and scorched his hair. And now he, almost dying, sits in front of a demon who is waiting for his poem. Wouldn't it have been easier to leave with a knight and leave the Wild Steppes to demons?.. - My friends, don't hit the mirrors, They are not guilty of anything, of anything. Tearing off the faded dusty posters, They show the thread of good and evil. They do not know the darkness, they do not see the light, Therefore, without a shadow of distortion, They draw our reflections, And their picture is not fairer. They are always silent, they are dumb. But the painted canvases speak, As simple as churchyards And indifferent as the kiss of winter. Their life is so endless, so small, It flows along the course of our destinies, But it never judges anyone either for bad or good deeds, But only paints with magical colors Just because someone will be happy. My friends, don't hit the mirrors... The demon opened his eyes. He looked sadly into the distance, thinking about something, then lowered his gaze to the sitting man. “For the second time tonight and in three hundred centuries of my life, you have been able to do the impossible. He rose from his black throne, and it instantly disappeared. Behind him, the sea of coals disappeared, giving way to the cool darkness of the night. -- You convinced me. The Wild Steppes will no longer be dangerous for travelers. I can't say how many like you have existed in the world and perished in these sands, but I can make sure that no one else gets hurt. Farewell, poet... - Farewell, - whispered the bard and sank down on the rapidly cooling ground. How pleasant it is to lie at night under a sky full of stars.

Victor Rudenko was born September 3, 1940 in the village of Dobropolye in the Donetsk region. Studied at the Kiev State University. T. G. Shevchenko. He worked in city and regional newspapers, in the magazine "Donbass" as an executive secretary.

Viktor Rudenko has published more than fifteen books of poetry and prose over the years of his creative activity. These are poetry collections - “Wings over the sea”, “Do not go from the sea”, “Warmth of the native coast”, “Bread and coal”, “I will call - respond”, “Save my homeland”, “Ode to the beloved”, “Forgive me for love ”, “Days of the Black Star”, “Feat of Solitude” and others.

Fragments in his work are the theme of the distant Arctic, as well as our Sea of \u200b\u200bAzov. The poet thoroughly develops the theme of love for the fatherland, the native land, designated by him as the Good Field. It was here, in Dobropolshchyna, that he spent his childhood and youth, here are his genealogical roots and the graves of his ancestors. And he dedicated his best poems to them - "Native", "Dobropolskaya Lilac", "The Shortest Road" and others.

The theme of the small homeland is mainly permeated with the book of his selected works “Prayer for Love and Repentance”. The writer published a book of prose - the story "The Tale of Saur-Mogila", and also prepared for publication a story-tale about the Good Field.

Laureate of the International Festival of the word "Property". Member of the National Union of Writers of Ukraine since 1983.

Here it is, close to the heart and sweet,
With the song of the mill wing,
With the eternal silence of the mass grave,
What is in sight, in the middle of the village.

On the palisade of the beaten path,
Where on the sides - only swan grass,
Mom will come to the grave slowly,
So that my father smiles through the years.

Kind polyushko - Dobropolye!
In the midst of a radiant day
In the cry of the cuckoo cut through the pain
My memory.

- In partnership with nature/ V. Rudenko // Vech. Donetsk. - 2013. - 2 Apr.
(No. 38). - S. 3. - [Poems: "Before spring", "Mists of days", "I don't want to be a debtor"].
- Reciprocity of soul and word/ V. Rudenko // Vech. Donetsk. - 2014. - March 4 (No. 26). - S. 3. - [poem "Getters of the past"].
- Donbass, His Majesty: [Poem] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2007. - No. 2. - S. 46-47.
- “Cry, we laugh ...”: [poems] / V. Rudenko // Position. - 2005. - July 1-8 (No. 25). - S. 8. - [“The soul is blooming”, “Without light”].
- From the notebook of life: [poems] / V. Rudenko // Reflection. -2005. - No. 7. - S. 15-18.
- paternal name: Poetry // Vech. Donetsk. - 2012. - 4 Feb. (No. 14). - p. 3.
- Cute: [Poem] / V. Rudenko // Position. - 2006. - March 3-10 (No. 9). - p. 8.
- One poet sat on a thousand ...: [Poem to Boris Oleinik] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2010. - September 7 (No. 104). - S. 11.
- Poetry: [poems: "Snow - on the ground, people to God." “God forbid!”] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2008. - February 2 (No. 22). - S. 12.
- The garden of our era: [From a poetic notebook] / V. Rudenko // Vech. Donetsk. - 2007. - Sept. 1 (No. 129). - p. 3.
- Soldier's son: [poem] / V. Rudenko // Position. - 2010. - No. 17. - P. 4.
- Triptych of Memory: [poems] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2007. - 12 Jan. (№7)/ - C. 15.
- Mining city, unforgettable friends: [poems] / V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2006. - November 2 (No. 202). - S. 31.

The life and work of the poet Viktor Rudenok:

- Vovenko, V. How strings are tempered/ V. Vovenko // Vech. Donetsk. - 2010. - September 3 (No. 102). - S. 19-20. - [About the father of the don. poet V. Rudenko - front-line soldier P. T. Rudenko].
- Vovenko, V. The beginning of autumn, apple fall .../ V. Vovenko // Donbass. - 2007. - September 1 (No. 161). - S. 12. - [Interview].
- Krivtsun, A. Donbass begins with us/ A. Krivtsun // Donbass. - 2012. - 9 Feb. (No. 16). - P. 25. - [Presentation of a new book by V. Rudenko "The Desperate Side"].
- Kudryavtseva, S. Good Field - love for life/ S. Kudryavtseva // Municipal newspaper (Formerly Our house +). - 2010. - March 12 (No. 10). - P. 3. - [About the new book by V. Rudenko "The Call of the Good Field"].
- Lyubimov, N. Meeting with a fellow countryman poet/ N. Lyubimov // Position. - 2011. - No. 43. - P. 4. - [A meeting with Viktor Rudenko was held at the Central Bank of Dobropolye].
- Rudenko, V. The poet was met by countrymen/ V. Rudenko // Vech. Donetsk. -2011. - November 15 (No. 131). - P. 3. - [V. Rudenko's creative evening took place in the district library of Dobropolye. Poems from the new book "Desperate Land"].
- Rudenko, V. Trace of memory/ V. Rudenko // Position. - 2008. - January 17 (No. 2). - S. 7. - [V. Rudenko about V. Lyakhov's work about miners].
- Rudenko, V. The poet's talent is certified/ V. Rudenko // Donbass. - 2007. - April 18 (No. 72). - S. 15. - [V. Rudenko about the work of E. Nefedorev and the poem dedicated to him "The Light Ahead"].
- Turkin, N. On the main positions of time/ N. Turkin // Position. - 2010. - No. 39. - P. 4. - [About the new book by V. Rudenko "The Snowstorm of Fate"].

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