| Here it is mushroom time again -
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| A rare calm in the bustle of the city.
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| You can fly again until the morning
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| Over hushed summer Moscow.
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| It is not clear, and my vice is simple:
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| I will stand by the window and pray.
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| Drinking lilac smog
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| The city will turn on constellations of chandeliers.
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| And pushing off the window cross,
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| Like the shadow of a leaf, I will become light.
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| And as if shrinking, shrinking, perplexedly lagging behind,
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| The square of the yard with a flock of dried diapers.
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| And then I'll keep flying
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| Over the river, over the Taganka-widow.
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| Like a big dressing table, skyscraper
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| It will reflect golden light.
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| I will write circles in the sky,
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| And dance on glass as if on ice.
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| I will look for you everywhere
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| And I probably won't find it again.
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| I never saw you, never...
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| And only when you find
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| On an empty yellow street I recognize you without difficulty,
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| And when you see me in the sky, you will smile.
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| And just like that, infinitely long ago,
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| I circle and circle over Moscow.
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| It's like I'm making a movie
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| About a chance meeting with you.
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| And when I returned, I didn’t sleep for a long time.
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| I sing and drink, and the summer is melting.
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| Let them knock on my hangar
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| I will not open to anyone -
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| Drunk aviator does not fly |