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In the upsurge of the damned passion
we smashed to pieces Russian home.
Anonymous must be this epoch,
and then – unconscious, filled with foam.

We learned to bow low at the power,
brute’s in the East, brute’s in the West.
Ivan who doesn’t remember kinship,
will gaily laugh at life and death.

And when the last of bastards yells,
the midnight’s wind will hurtle the spam.
And the indifferent Nature round us
remains as ever deaf-and-dumb.

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