Through the snows in winter or through the abyss of autumn
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Returning home from Sergei Yesenin
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Look into the eyes and even have time to smile
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He is one of those who always promise to return
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In a hoarse voice into the microphone
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Crows sing sonorous songs
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In this city from time immemorial
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Snow with leaflets
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We are one of those who did not value
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With medals
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Lived well together
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Under Stalin
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On fixed-route taxis behind the uncomplaining sun
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Returned alone from Volodya Vysotsky
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Newly sung soldier as a hereditary warrior
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He is one of those who always bothered
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Pale background on a silhouette
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eternity itself
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Those who did not believe that he was a poet
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To carelessness
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They gave the sky to the earth pressed
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acacia
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The one who was buried
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Whole nation
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Whether by poems in winter or by autumn abyss
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Returned home on broken knees
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Here, no one is out of work here they will score with boots,
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And I just sat reveling in syllables
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They don't come in this climate
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flock
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Someone will say that he was in love
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Doesn't count
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Time is counting down my countdown
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Starts with the strike of the clock
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- click -
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Hello miracle, I've been going to you for so long
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Again, not forever questions for answers
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Cities grow up, children grow old
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Try to look through the fatal clouds
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You chose the right path, though not the best
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Again eternity in the color of amber
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Can we make it
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Well, it turns out we are again in vain
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The wind sowed
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There is no storm, but the trace has caught a cold
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Regrets
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Lies for real windiness
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To salvation |