| There, if you sit on your belly, you can’t pull it out with four
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| Bombila slowly rules the yards with mats
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| From these doors I fluttered into the world for the first time
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| My spaceport, storage of non-residential apartments
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| Remember to extinguish the candle with dry fingers
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| I don't want to and will stay, spend the night
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| I will review everything that I saw at night in the window
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| Alien kitchens, light in a stagnant shroud
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| At this moment the city is really dear to me
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| Constellation of blue-green lights and burners
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| People can't sleep, like frozen birds,
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| But the gas does not warm, only the enamel is smoked
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| And everyone seems to understand that something is not right
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| Only the native outskirts won’t let go
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| The number of hidden disasters, as an indicator of strength
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| Where does this admixture of terpila come from in the mentality?
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| Chorus:
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| Neighborhood like an old textbook
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| Thumbing through his fingers into the blood
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| Pulled out everything that was healing
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| Only the drawings on the peels remained
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| Our faces are in the ruins of schools,
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| And I avert my eyes guiltily
 | 
| And they don't care where I went
 | 
| They care that I went somewhere
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| Today there was no cry that breaks through the window from the streets
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| Yes, and who will show up?  | 
| Zealous winds only blew
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| There are four lanterns for eight old courtyards
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| At dusk, creaking with iron, they alone speak
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| How autumn brought us death on the first leaf
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| Eleven years ago, how the small world was empty
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| True as the forgotten rusty doors keep
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| And how we broke away from here faster, to the far shore
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| The area is covered with snow, wild rains washed
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| Broken dreams are waiting for their owners under the slabs
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| Windows eagerly meet every stranger
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| And everyone here believes that the one who is released will return
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| Gray snow sags somewhere in early March
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| Trampled through the slush from a hut to a pawnshop
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| Only in the evenings in the distance, headlights flicker past
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| The sign here is a dead end.  | 
| Here everything is old
 | 
| Chorus:
 | 
| Neighborhood like an old textbook
 | 
| Thumbing through his fingers into the blood
 | 
| Pulled out everything that was healing
 | 
| Only the drawings on the peels remained
 | 
| Our faces are in the ruins of schools,
 | 
| And I avert my eyes guiltily
 | 
| And they don't care where I went
 | 
| They care that I went somewhere |