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Igor Toporov was born on March 8, 1962, in Ufa, Russia. He finished Ufa school 110 in 1979 and
                    graduated from the Bashkir State University, English Department in 1984 .He have been working as a
                   translator  for  31  years  as  well  as    writing  poetry.  He  had    translated  a  lot  of  foreign  authors  into

                   Russian, and a lot of Russian authors into English. Among the Russians there are many authors of
                   the past: Pushkin, Lermontov, Nikolai Nekrasov, Xenia Nekrasova, Tsvetaeva, Akhmatova, Fet, Blok
                   Alexander,  Yulia  Drunina,  Olga  Bergholz,  Boris  Kornilov,  Zinaida  Gippius,  Naum  Korzhavin,  Vasily
                   Zhukovsky, Gavriil Derzhavin.


                                       Igor Toporov, Ufa, Russia










                                                                       Literary analysis of the poem by

                                                                              V.V. Lionter "To Mother"











                                             The  poem by V.V. Lionter "To

                                                                  Mother"


                                            My heart aches—something is wrong again—
                                            My old mother’s fallen ill. The fast
                                            Train. I ‘ve just started boarding the train
                                            Being now about to depart.
                                            But my work. Day-to-day work. As always.
                                            And I’m whirling in the cycle of days.

                                            Daily I’ve many worries. It’s a matter, of course.
                                            “Mom, how are you?”-I’m thinking of her
                                            nowadays.
                                            Meantime, time passes quickly. I’m in
                                            My production an advanced worker.
                                            The master, in the past a Bolshevik being,
                                            Dubbed me once Industry’s minister.
                                            But came from the Post Office a telegram.
                                            And I read it my own head drooping,
                                            Pulling my hands to my throat…it was stuffy.
                                            “Mum!”
                                            The chest was torn by a cry grieving.
                                            I didn’t save my dear person! It was late.

                                            I was in a hurry. All things considered.
                                            A century won’t be enough to expiate
                                            My sin…how indifferently I lived!
                                            Having something we don’t appreciate it for,
                                            It. We don’t keep it (the point is also this).
                                            Mother is one, we won’t replace her.
                                            So let’s take care of mothers. Please.





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