My places are the halls of the bottom, longing sings there.
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I dug the answer here with a digger, but did not find it.
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Madly, without sleep, my bathyscaphe dug into the silt
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Where is spring? |
Where are all those with whom you dragged your sneakers to holes?
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Provincial life, catchy color.
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With whom did we live together, loved, took off, fell? |
(Where are you brothers?)
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And in the night there are tears and prayers.
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He buried them in the hall and is silent, a monolith in prose.
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God, accept them, do not be angry, do not drive.
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I'm just like them, you know that, God.
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Don't care until everything, as always, but not until spring.
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Dying today is scary, but someday you can.
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What is the yardstick to measure fate?
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Death always finds a reason in any of our series.
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We are always waiting for the heavenly manna of fabulous times.
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We do not remember how we were born, we will not notice how we die.
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Moments fly by
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And sand pours down through the fingers.
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And we still have 100 years to oblivion,
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Another minute and eternal sleep.
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And everyone is flying in a series of moments,
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And sand pours down through the fingers.
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For 100 years we still have to forget,
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Another minute, one minute, and eternal sleep.
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Arrows on the tracks remember, they know what happens.
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Time is not cognac, people die, whites leave like poison,
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That flies through the vein like a Ferrari.
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Old ones like me, once dreamed, but disappeared.
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This is sadness, eyes on me from a stone,
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An old reliable kent from my yard.
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Why is he now in the ground under the stones in roses?
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This indifferent hellish cosmos!
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She always gets away with it, evil bitch-fate!
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Why are the heavens silent?
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Everyone let her decide - it's creepy, but so
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- Who rest in peace.
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She always gets away with it, evil bitch-fate!
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What is the silence about?
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And not a sound in the ears, when the soul is in torment -
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Down the earth!
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Moments fly by
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And sand pours down through the fingers.
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And we still have 100 years to oblivion,
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Another minute, one minute, and eternal sleep.
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And everyone is flying in a series of moments,
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And sand pours down through the fingers.
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For 100 years we still have to forget,
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Another minute, one minute, and eternal sleep. |