| Above me is the carousel of the blue sky,
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| And around the cornflower blue steppe,
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| And on my back, falling on Russia, I,
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| I will silently look into the blue.
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| I will choke on the depth of its whirlpool,
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| Sprawled like a cross on the grass,
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| I'll fly by the breeze a little touched,
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| By its boundless blue.
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| The bitter taste of a bitten blade of grass,
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| Will push the veil into the intoxicating one,
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| Will break me unarmed
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| The loser, with the life of the war.
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| Everything that has passed in a moment will be summed up,
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| The head will brighten "at once",
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| And take my soul hostage,
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| These Russian skies are blue.
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| I will press my dry lips to her,
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| I'll drink it to unconsciousness,
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| Even with the living now, even with the dead,
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| I'm not afraid to go into the blue.
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| But I'm lying, alive, still like,
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| The paths to heaven are not open,
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| Leaning back to their homeland,
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| In the middle of the cornflower blue steppe. |