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The train from point A, flowing from the pipe
tunnel, It coincides with the buzz in the widely spread out,
in which wrinkles ran, leaving foreheads,
and those of cumulus crowd huddled together in a turban of the Prophet.
You'll meet me at the station, pushing body,
Brown and the local garbage will my summer resident.
But even the moon does not recognize, what are we doing,
looking out the window, exactly at the end of Taskbook.
We - on the excavation of the future, the striker is the key,
that is, life without us, already exported overseas
sweaty due to Morse code and wherein the semaphore
buff, in memory of a bit of marble.
And if we in the crowd, a thousand years later,
hail theirs Watch, hear us flat-footed,
we count the dead, under the heel crunching:
preferring to copy script of emptiness.


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