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You sing together about his unsuccessful union.
Smiling now widely each his own museum.
Poplar and the fountain, expressing grief you, rukopleshtut,
in a warm room to sleep two corners of your lyre quiver.
Lonely me it's all fun and painful.
From vast anguish, to suddenly burst into tears involuntarily,
to heaven for young eyes, I raise my glass,
mother on the sofa of your sad song heed.
Fountain flee golden fauns and nymphs,
All the saints of the country suggest you take their halos,

golden lyre chords filled buildings
and according to sound, telling about your suffering.
It means, the whole world, - it is from your passion does not depend,
but also the life of your poor poor love will not exceed,
it is your sadness - dear Ivory Tower:
disappears one, born a new fable.
Incomparable really expensive mouth speaketh.
And the louder they strike the strings with the fingers.
The Bone window flew mutual flour
to the heavens and in Hades - up and down, on the theory of sound.

By creating their own world, surrounded by walls and moats
to protect it. That's why the space between you,
what, for the benefit of Union, since its destruction,
you find yourself on the wall all the time conscious target.

18 July 1962

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