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I was born and raised in the Baltic bogs, near
zinc gray waves, always ram-two,
and here - all the rhymes, hence the faint voice,
winding between them, like wet hair,
if the winds do. Leaning on his elbow,
shell ear to distinguish them not roar,
but popping paintings, stavenь, palms, teapot,
kipyashtiy of kerosinke, maximum - the cries of seagulls.
In these flat edges and the stores from falsehood
a heart, that there is nowhere to hide and can be seen on.
This is only for sound space is always a hindrance:
eye will not complain about the lack of echo.


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