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The skies over the hills,
on the road far-away,
returning without a song
from the land of the Italic,
over the country gardens,
on family fields
fly kingfisher
and waves its wings.

And from the heights of the Olympic,
reach of jackdaws,
there, on the slopes of the Alps,
where yellow violets, –
though her eyes were vigilant
and space does not bother, –
sees bird Hills,
but can not understand them.

Between pines on cliffs
bird screaming spinning
and, hesitated in the clouds,
again seeks homeland.
Remember only the top
Yes blooming poppies,
that of Monte Cassino
They were the Poles.

1960 (?)

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