| Lips are twisted with a grimace of boredom,
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| All the waves of rushes are crashed on rocks,
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| There was left only a taste: infinity and emptiness
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| Though a bitter glass of luxury is drunk completely.
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| At night, when hard, unbearable darkness
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| Like shaggy black dog walks around the bed,
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| In the embraces there are only one woman — the loneliness
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| In the tattered hotel of broken soul.
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| She whispers and torments with a rattles of colours,
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| Prostitutes and demons, bloody ghosts
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| And seductive majos in witch style of Goya;
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| And he, having lifted a sight from under gloomy forehead,
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| Dived into the eternal vortex of human unrests
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| To create bouquets with flowers of nightmarish evil. |