The artsy unevenness of the roofs flows beyond the horizon.
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Seventeenth Quarter. |
Paris. |
The umbrella shakes a little.
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And a French woman, serious and sweet,
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Hurries through the dim morning, must have overslept.
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And those who meet her in a narrow street,
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Do not guess - everyone has their own business here -
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She is at least a former, but a Russian subject,
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She is the same Muscovite as she was.
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The former Russian subject has a mess in the apartment,
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And that means something is definitely not right in the soul,
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But how easy her words are, and let her sleep no matter,
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But from the "capital" head does not hurt in the morning.
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And remembering the dream about the Arbat courtyards,
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She, like a river, is immersed in business,
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And despite the stupid mood
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She is the same Muscovite as she was.
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Negroes sell chestnuts in the Place de la Concourt,
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A snowless new year is wandering through the light bulbs.
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And the Parisians, thinking about their own, are in a hurry,
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And Christmas again together with a friend from the USA.
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French wine will fill festive Paris,
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And she will dream of Moscow as white and white.
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She drinks vodka like this, a Russian subject,
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She is the same Muscovite as she was.
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She is at least a former, but a Russian subject,
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She is the same Muscovite as she was. |