Пятница, 24.05.2019
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Dance (BG)
We're dancing on a hillside,
And midday sings like a reed-pipe.
You're called Winter,
I'm called April.
Ah, how high are the heavens:
Them even by hand not to reach;
And I want with wind to write
A tune of this dream.
And us no one will catch up,
Because, not knowing the way,
We kept the particle of fire
And believed – all ahead.

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