< Tim Skorenko

Write, write, no one knows
The fact that you,
Dips making victories,
Put the butt
The continents and generations,
And the city,
We all - your prisoners,
We -. All

We emptied, rhythmically moved out
With heated seats,
These lumps of rags,
Forgot your text,
I know, I know this stuff,
But since then
You are not a diagnosis, my girl,
You - sentence

. Swallow the lead - not in our rules,
We - the emptiness,
Why do you have such left,
My star?
we'll swallow - and spit,
You become me,
And to her, and they - and empty zyblemoy,
Blind, funny.

And we padёm - plague, dilapidated -
To your feet
Realizing that you become a windless,
My hurricane.
And you smolchish - freely, sincerely.
And thunder will strike,
Since we're written
One pen.

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