| Partisans of love, on the sleepless snow
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| We die from the cold of glass and steel
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| In a swan feather, a dispatch from heaven
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| Fell into the fire, our bright sadness
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| Partisans of love, who calls us here?
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| Behind the bars are not birds, behind the leash are animals
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| Mirrors of the pages, I stand under the asphalt
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| Sliding doors cut our sorrows
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| They write signs of fate, partisans of love
|
| On a patched tape, escalator dust
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| After the cramps of the day, the burnt night
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| It glides like a lost light along the tunnel...
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| To the inevitable tomorrow.
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| We're wasting minutes on sagging ice
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| We are on the nerve beam of the setting heart
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| We burn with words, pre-dawn dreams
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| To warm up the freedom of hot mist
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| We don't know passwords, we don't build ambushes
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| We are the frozen wings of bridges over the Neva
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| Under the pressure of rains, we do not retreat back
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| Regular winds do not give up without a fight
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| They write signs of fate, partisans of love
|
| On a patched tape, escalator dust
|
| After the cramps of the day, the burnt night
|
| It glides like a lost light along the tunnel...
|
| To the inevitable tomorrow.
|
| Through the madness of the streets, through the fantasies of the rooftops
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| We go drowning in autumn roads
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| Like fallen leaves, damp days
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| Lost in the bygone spring epilogues
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| We are a night needle, plunge into the darkness
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| Through the thin skin of the faded sky
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| And open our eyes, on the other side
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| Without sin and guilt, without wine and without bread
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| After the cramps of the day, the burnt night
|
| It glides like a lost light along the tunnel...
|
| Into the inevitable tomorrow... |