| At the hotel of the motionless days
|
| The stars do not shine:
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| Sometimes it is barely glimpsed
|
| The bottom of the valley;
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| There is a salty smell
|
| But you can't see the sea ...
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| From the paths that reach us
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| There are no more roads ...
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| At the hotel of the motionless days
|
| There has always been a soldier
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| But the war did not explain
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| If he was dead or born there;
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| And if he was born or died
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| The poet never knew
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| Who wasted time wondering
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| If an entrance is also an exit
|
| And an unmentionable night
|
| A merchant passed through it
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| And he sold everything to everyone
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| And they all had nothing;
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| And he was selling so as not to cry
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| Not having sold
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| And the tears bathed
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| They spoiled the brocade
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| They sent a messenger
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| Maybe it comes this evening;
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| Pass the mountains, pass the frost
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| Thunder and storm pass;
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| The fire of hell passes
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| With a sheet in his hands;
|
| They sent a messenger
|
| Maybe it will come tomorrow
|
| At the hotel of the motionless days
|
| There was also a ruler:
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| He ordered, went up comfortably
|
| He took the whole third floor:
|
| And there came an academic
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| With a great trick
|
| But in the dark they lit up
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| Only the corners and stairs
|
| And a cloudless night
|
| A thought arose;
|
| And we began to distinguish
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| False darkness and true darkness;
|
| And a night with clouds
|
| There a memory was lost
|
| And the confusion continued
|
| The appearance of a look
|
| The messenger is lost
|
| He got lost on the border
|
| Between the principle of things
|
| And the things of the end;
|
| The messenger is lost
|
| With horses and dogs
|
| Everything went black again
|
| Behind the cry of the seagulls;
|
| The messenger is lost
|
| With a paper in your hands:
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| It won't come tonight
|
| It won't come tomorrow
|
| At the hotel of the motionless days
|
| In a woman's dream
|
| Everything is clear, everything is clear
|
| The twilight does not deceive;
|
| And it was enough to look at it for a moment
|
| To read them in the heart
|
| That she already knew everything
|
| Before even dreaming:
|
| And it was finally day
|
| He was a child and he was a song
|
| And it was the joy of the return
|
| And it was "sleep", and it was people;
|
| And it was finally heaven
|
| With the moon and the stars
|
| And it was finally sea
|
| With the wind and the sails ...
|
| And it was immediately guitar
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| And it was a hug and she was hurt
|
| And it was "look at me!" |
| and it was earth
|
| And it was living and it was life;
|
| So the day turned day
|
| And the night was the night;
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| The horizon on the horizon
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| And the stars in the sky, all of them |