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Oh how sweet ring-shaped smoke is to me!
Lack of care, authorities.
What an encouragement to sadness.
I loved my wooden house.

Sunset caresses a stool, oven,
fingers clutching a cigarette butt.
And blue smoke string rings
on a bright, nameless beam.

Why they love us? For wealth, for
eyes and for excess power.
And I love lifeless things
for their lace outlines.

The animated world is not my idol.
Real estate is no worse.
Special, when she looks like
for movable.
Is not justice, Amur,
when tobacco smoke gets married,
the barrack looks like a temple.

But a bride in a modest dress cannot understand,
where is the future spouse.

Aug. Sept 1965

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Joseph Brodsky
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