| There are streams of weeping in her ankles, bound in chains
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| And in the bread of rye is baked
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| His backpack is sewn from sorrows, nightmares
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| A smile on his face clotted
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| The longing for the strokes has whitened his fever
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| And with the same poison, she contaminates her children
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| He cursed and created us, hating his gaze
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| And not content with that
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| And he uttered words which must now be enjoyed by all the people and the land of the north
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| If you rejoice do not share it with others, be the bearer of your own grief alone
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| Covet what the other has, exchange your wife for the neighbor's wife
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| Let the red house, the potato field, the beach and the minivan give you luck
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| It's about God Kekkonen, next
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| His life is a performance like January dripping
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| The flag in the half-bar, there is always a yard
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| Believes in the same lottery line
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| It can only celebrate on May Day or Midsummer
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| His songs sound like longing and longing
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| That stubborn bone head is lying, buried
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| To the worshiped mausoleum
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| And he uttered words which must now be enjoyed by all the people and the land of the north
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| If you rejoice do not share it with others, be the bearer of your own grief alone
|
| Covet what the other has, exchange your wife for the neighbor's wife
|
| Let the red house, the potato field, the beach and the minivan give you luck
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| Who uttered words that the whole nation and the northern country can now enjoy?
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| Let the red house, the potato field, the beach and the minivan give you luck
|
| And he uttered words which must now be enjoyed by all the people and the land of the north
|
| If you rejoice do not share it with others, be the bearer of your own grief alone |