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As it is a provincially, I
I insist, that there are birds
with fifty wings. What is
large birds, than the air,
eating millet years
carrion decades.
That's why they can not knock off
and why they have nowhere to land.
Their approach gives their sound –
fifty joint noise of the wings,
scale in each half of the sky, and
you do not see them at the same time.
I call them to himself, "corners".
Their plumage is something there on the amount of rooms,
of the amount of cities, where I was
throw. This similarity
reduces theirs otherworldliness.
I look into their features without fear:
in my fifty-three of their beaks
and claws - erased pencils, but not
liver threat, and language - even more so.
I - no prophet, They - not the seraphim.
They nest there, where more space,
than in this or in that the end
galaxy. To them I - point,
apex acute or obtuse –
depending on the rotation of the wings –
angle. Their appearance is similar
Invasion into the air cuneiform. However,
they narrowed, to go down,
and not vice versa - is not the, that letters.
"There, top ", Persians say,
corners bored expand
and pulls the taper. sometimes the angles,
as a fan adding up, degree to degree,
give a feeling, their attention to your
kills a reflex
self-defense: infinity, too,
I suppose, vulnerable (take
though the apparent lack of sober
researchers). Most of those in
days raises up perpendiculars,
played by compasses or, in front of, drawing
pen zigzags in the style of Thunder.
As for me, saying "all clear",
I turn away from the window
and was relieved to rest against the wall look.


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