Inside the free
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There was water with chlorine and a warm heart.
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You can become one who climbs into holes
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Warm, baby...
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When the moon burned, we celebrated the death of Descartes,
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Blowing smoke into the lungs.
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Perhaps this is our fault and our pain,
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If we humiliate such.
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We die on the ninth day
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Light fogs of hope
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And angels, daughters, come to us,
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Or rather, their shadows are the same.
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Our books were always open
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But the Vatican was blind
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And I couldn't know where the river flows
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And who invented the philosophy of years.
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Bound with one chain
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Children of the sky, glances past.
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Good forest, teach me
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Listen to the winter wind with your heart.
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Bound with one chain
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Children of the sky, glances past.
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Good forest, teach me
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Listen to the winter wind with your heart.
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And the old people went around the world,
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We should live longer, son!
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But the earth has no ends,
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Just like there is no fear in the post-war regime.
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And the pines groaned, take me forest,
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We are your children!
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Don't be bored, we were born in a ghost town
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This means that the way of death is open to us.
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And you and I, in search of the main thing,
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They launched ships into the sky to find each other.
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But from specific to rebellion, friend,
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Like from Ligovka to the very south.
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Take me away, wind, drop your body,
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This world brings the pain of winter
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And what will fall from the sky white,
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I will break on the muddy waters of the Neva.
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Bound with one chain
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Children of the sky, glances past.
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Good forest, teach me
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Listen to the winter wind with your heart.
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Bound with one chain
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Children of the sky, glances past.
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Good forest, teach me
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Listen to the winter wind with your heart.
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The children of the sky smell the wet wind,
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How canaries smell gas-z-z-z,
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As Salvador wrote deeper,
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And how Jesus died for us.
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Know that time is powder
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And I quietly blow the sand off my face,
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I run away in the morning
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So as not to wake up under the steps of the father.
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And I draw the horizon with lines
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How Levitan put his heart into
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If you can forgive me
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For weak deeds in late childhood.
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We escort the ships
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Pressing a whitish curl to his chest.
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This is a winter picture
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And those eyes are calling me through the open windows. |