Oleg Severyukhin, Russian writer

Ex-military diplomat and translator. Colonel in retirement. Served on the Chinese, Iranian, Turkish and Mongolian borders. He worked in the administrations of the Omsk region and the city of Omsk. Writes social and detective fiction, lyric poetry. He lives in Siberia in the city of Omsk.

A few thoughts from life

I am constant in my inconstancy. If you do not cast a shadow, then you drop the hooves. Who does not eat sushi - he does not make hara-kiri.


The mood can be compared with horseradish,
Eyeballs and nauseating in the mouth,
As if I am a captain in the sea penne
And do not wait for me in the far port.


I'm a wanderer by year,
Something is glad, something is a pity,
From a past life I'm Chinese,
Now I'm Russian and Moskal.


Above you I'm the master today,
Let the fool, but tight moshna,
I want to fly into the water Razin
And the princess will throw him.


Did not say dream book about Japan,
Apparently, my dream was making something awkward,
Here I sit and look in "Panasonic"
On the problems of Russian Kuriles.


In the houses are hidden somebody's secrets
And in every house there is a soul,
We learn about them by accident,
In the closet with papers rustling.


He dragged the cross through this life,
Something like a staff, a club,
He walked along the path in verse, sung,
Then he disappeared into the fog.

Black line

The Russian-Ukrainian war was a greater tragedy than the collapse of the Soviet empire. The war was divided into two hostile parts of all the republics of the former USSR, as well as the population of the most active participants in the armed conflict - Russia and Ukraine. Family broke up, former friends do not communicate for a long time. And the end of the confrontation is not visible. It is possible that in about thirty years, if a great war does not break out, the conflict will come to naught, but it will not be forgotten. Our generation will not find it any more, but there is some kind of hope.

Still in work

Sometimes it happens that a writer becomes a simple person and stops writing, doing something completely insignificant, internally reproaching himself for not spending time without spending time on completing unfinished books

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