| I spit red rowan on the snow.
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| Coal branches into the clouds,
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| The tincture of your eyes knocked out the spirit.
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| I hide the body in my pocket with the last match.
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| Hello, weapons of your hands,
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| Gentle powder lips, howling chorus of bullets
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| An attack of heart desires from a neighboring planet.
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| I'll take it to the glass of the sky. |
| foot
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| I will move the wagon down a slope.
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| I will rush to collect fallen stars
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| To the foot of your days - straight into the mud.
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| Flying birds necklace
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| I will hug your neck - feathers are a living ligature.
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| Dance this dance in the radiance of the sky-burning saints,
|
| Dance this dance - the phenomenon of the living.
|
| Dance this dance, untie the knot of simple melodies,
|
| Dance this dance - the phenomenon of the living.
|
| There is hardly enough material to make our bed here,
|
| From your hair I will take billions of years -
|
| Weave the ripples of the waves.
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| I will shake the cracked bell in my fist with the ringing of words.
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| The air is full of you - I take out my match:
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| Well, lie down, everyone who is full of desire!
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| I spit red rowan on the snow.
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| I'm loose like the old world.
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| Dance, please, a handful of notes
|
| On your forehead my sunset burns.
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| Until this city cools down
|
| Hundreds of crazy volts - fuete for those who do not sleep.
|
| Dance this dance in the radiance of the sky-burning saints,
|
| Dance this dance - the phenomenon of the living.
|
| Dance this dance, untie the knot of simple melodies,
|
| Dance this dance - a phenomenon of the living |