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There’s no place left for pain in the soul,
fires, destining to rise - and to fall,
even the ashes got cold.
Whirling of winds over people and lands
among the frozen souls and heads,
where’s our silver and gold?
The sun was shining. Now, strangely, is not.
May be, that someone will notice the rot –
Someone except only me?
Look, how are whirling, rejoicing, the torrents –
of pungent smoke darkly-violet currents –
dim specks of light, as if split…
Good Lord, do give them the force and the reason,
may they regain their wits in the prison!
Save their souls and homes!
Or of the sorrowful gift do deprive me –
to see the ominous flames of the fire
over the Kremlin domes!

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