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In the village, lost in the woods,
staring at the gaps in the heavens –
when will light up your windows
in the heavenly (Moskvoretskaya) housings.

And the south wind, that carries clouds
with cold, netemneyuschih heights,
that look, far your Muse
Auca voice will carry.

And here, in the forest, to explicitly turn
the past with the future, on the scale
between voice and echo - yet clearly
I withdraw - as once already,

hearing voices not obvious,
I responded to a call of the Well.
And now there silently delirious
among people, among the rivers, in the woods.

May 1964

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