Poplar leaves fly around
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In drafts the doors slam my house.
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Like guards shots
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Yes, from the underside of the eyes low all around.
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The wind is tearing the grove outside the gate,
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Like a line of prisoners before work,
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Their calls are bells to them,
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The towers of the zones are their bell towers,
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And the taiga tops are coniferous,
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They are like holy domes.
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He returned - he met an empty house,
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Poplar sadly shook his head - waiting for the snow,
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And the foliage, losing, told
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How I saw off my old people for a century.
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The wind is tearing the grove outside the gate,
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Like a line of prisoners before work,
|
Their calls are bells to them,
|
The towers of the zones are their bell towers,
|
And the taiga tops are coniferous,
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They are like holy domes.
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There is no one to forgive except God
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In addition to the wind, there is no one for me to take revenge now.
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Poplar leaves fly around
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And all night the door slams with fire.
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The wind is tearing the grove outside the gate,
|
Like a line of prisoners before work,
|
Their calls are bells to them,
|
The towers of the zones are their bell towers,
|
And the taiga tops are coniferous,
|
They are like holy domes. |