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23-02-2015 Автор: Liquid Buratino

A tribute for fallen Bouratinos

 Enslaved stretch of forests,

Snow like powder of souls

Whitish remnants of my squads

Left somewhere in deepness of dream.

 

But how long they were going

Near the bottomest bottom

Of None-being, the lanes of

Existential absence.

 

I awaken, my head is flushed,

Rare species of wood,

I’ve been cut out

By strong hand of Papa Carlo.

 

Being full of sparks,

Of words and letters emerged from

The core of wooden anxiety

I see the ambiguous process

 

Of several Bouratino’s dawn.

A lot of them were piled up

Before going into rustic ovens

Be hands of uncleared fugs.

 

Too many fallen into ovens

For the villagers moths sake.

My assumption of the people’s guilt

Like parts of immortal wooden sham.

 

Transition of the morning,

New verses like bridging the points

Of transferring my mind

Into the body of all Bouratinos

 

In common, extraterrestrial’s faces.

Wait until being called.

All ancestors in fire left,

In the dust swollen on fields.

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