sometimes you, beating…

sometimes you, beating
Instant flash months,
Akin to fires and thickets cornfields,
When the edge of the treeless;

Breathe in the future, trifle
And burn it zalizhetsya
It is your soul, as the steppe
Fire fluent zhizhitsey.

And for most of you coffin
With the fate of your vestibule,
days, slovno herd of antelope,
In terror trample the prairie.

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Boris Pasternak
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