On July 10, 2007, Inna Pushkar passed away

Inna’s earthly life ended, and eternal life began. So it was pleasing to the Lord God that suffering was an integral part of her life. And yet, wether was Inna happy? Of course, in his crazy love to life, to people and, of course, to creativity. At the last stage of her life, writing music became the meaning and purpose of her life. Inna Pushkar was born in Lvov, graduated from a music school there, moved to Kyiv with her parents, studied at the conservatory. Inna was an amazingly bright person and an extraordinary talented composer.

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Fingers are keys, fingers are reason, fingers are pain that sounds from everywhere. Fingers – a ghetto of silent delight, fingers of white, black color, fingers – a sunny road, fingers – music of eternal anxiety. Pianist – the sun as a minted coin. You say that gold coins warm your soul. This summer is in the loser, autumn returns, the oblique lined notebooks, rain at the desk, the wind spins the roulette wheel with passion, the night smiles, the dream-youngster is approaching. Gateways tremble, pants-pipe, the moon oddball stands and catches the stars with a magic fishing rod. A pianist will never condemn a black-and-white life, he will rather behead the love, forgets about it, and, breathing in the nagging sadness of the wedding silence, will drink with the first person he meets. Bad weather is handing out bills, the city is betting in alarm. There are tears of past happiness on the glass, and the triumphal arch of bad weather grows to the sky. Lvov I Dad, will I become an adult? – Yes. When I’m gone. Dad, take me to study music. – I’ll take you. Dad, come to school and listen to me play. – I’ll come. II Dad, I play the best. – I know. Where from? – From a camel. Are you laughing? – No. I just believe in you. III Dad, there are so many loves in me. I can’t handle it. – You’ll be fine, daughter. You will definitely make it. Daddy, I’m scared. – I know. Kyiv I Daddy, we broke up with him. I’m alone. All alone. Daddy, help. – Daughter, I’m far away, Im not with you for a long time. Why don’t I know about it? – You know. II Dad, I started composing music. Just don’t say you know. – I dont speak. You speak, and I will be silent and listening. III Dad, I miss you. Why is everything so unfair? The sickness came to me. She will never let me go. It will let you go. And we will be together. Life after life. <I’m a secret> we recorded in Kyiv in the studio of the leading arranger and stage director Vladimir Bebeshko. Inna was worried. But Tamara Gverdtsiteli was in a great shape, and everything worked out the first time. Everyone was in a good mood. We joked and didn’t want to leave. Inna proposed Tamara to record one more of our songs, <41st year>, but the sound engineer of Gverdtsiteli insisted on his own, and the recording was postponed to the next time. More than a year has passed since then. When Inna passed away, I called Tamara and told her about it. Her first words were: <God, what a horror! .. What a pity!>. When I named the date, Tamara’s reaction was stunning: <This is mystic, fatal, on that day in Moscow on television I was recording <I am a secret>:>

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Stored by the yearn of the passing day and the bluff of nights scattered in the world, why did you make me an icon under the ashen sky of autumn rays. I am a secret, I am the cry of your trembling hands, I am a wounded beast, pinched by pain. Of all the delightful sufferings on earth, there is only one, and it is called love. Last midnight come and pray,

with your back to the dawn, your face to the sunset. Look back at the stellar mixture secretly, squeezed by the mind of separation in a circle. And, the creator thrown by the wind to the earth, spend your soul, return all debts and, if you find out that this is the end, light a candle in the temple of the heart as a keepsake.

P.S. Passion, burning everything and everything in its path, entered your heart with the first chords of the unconscious music of the future lonely and all-consuming existence.

My words, like sad sunbeams, fluttered like heavenly moths in your orphaned soul, and a song began to sound, sad and sublime, like your disappeared earthly life, unquestioning in its original essence. Be with us. Today the sky is your castle in the air. Rejoice while we’re here yearning for you. * * * Be not recognized. The road as a whip. Who cannot be returned, for him the burial service cannot be read. Life is a waiting room, people are thronging. Spring has fallen like an early star, and now you are waiting for departure to an unknown land, test yourself with patience, patience. The wind rushes through the music book, and the birds chirp like little children. At all stops farewell glances. Fly like a ladybug for a reward.


Alexander Korotko