| Horizon touched by black smoke,
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| Rising in a morning fire
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| Isn’t this what I dreamed about,
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| Aren’t the crows screaming for war to come?
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| Yonder I will follow the flock of birds,
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| Only the sun will touch the sky,
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| A lynx will leave a trace
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| On snowy light landscapes
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| In the morning,
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| With the migration of snow-white clouds,
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| I’ll go hence, and the boughs
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| Will drop a shawl under my feet
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| In the new morning, through endless fields,
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| I’ll go away, beyond the horizon
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| Where the birds are in exile
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| For black smoke
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| I’ll follow all the storms,
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| On the way of birds flown away
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| And their forgotten traces on snow
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| In the morning, I’ll follow a Pallas' cat,
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| That smelled fresh prey,
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| I’ll onward speed and on my cheekbones
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| Will snow fall and remain there evermore.
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| The smoke of black fires
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| Spreads in the distance closing half of the sky,
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| The logs of burned dwellings,
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| Push their bony fingers through the ice.
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| Above the ash of old gardens,
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| The winds blow in their impotent rage,
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| Pain of wrested words,
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| Grows from the charred sky.
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| You, my burnt motherland
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| You are hot ardent ash,
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| Is this you, on whom I have to sprinkle water???
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| Touch… Die but avenge… |