Sky disgust came to the hill,
In the autumn of curses,
The wind was worn by time, how to dress
Grazed weeds tapes.

Clouds on the hill held. So they went
Migration to the hill.
The wind was worn during frill
dirty, thin, shabby land.

Steppe, as an angel, nestable,
Wind bawling drawl and imperiously:
Steppe! I forgot in the possession of a vowel,
How to negotiate with guboyu lip.

Von, bridging and water-horror,
How to lamp, He blew on the river,
He and peonies, as a tallow candle,
Tries to blow out the full breasts.
And blows. And in the darkness plunged,
Hladeyut dull splash and lining
leaves of aspen. AND, falling to the ground,
Candles with clumps buried in mud.
Was it too late in the fields of yesterday
Or until the papers burned down on the eve of
Vyanuvshy tysyacheletnik petunias,
stew. Farewell. For a month. It's time.

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Boris Pasternak
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