our march

Beat the stomp riot area!
Above, proud ridge heads!
We are the flood of the second flood
sweep the worlds of the city.

Days bull peg.
Slow years arba.
Our god is running.
Heart is our drum.

Is there any of our heavenly gold?

Do we feel sorry for the wasp?
Our weapons are our songs.
Our gold is ringing voices.

Greenery lie, meadow,
lined the bottom of the day.
Rainbow, give an arc
years of fast horses.

view, dull stars to heaven!
Without it, we’ll make our songs.
Hey, Big Dipper! ask it,

so that they take us to heaven alive.

Joy drink! sing!
Spring is spilled in veins.
Heart, beat the fight!
Our Breast - Copper Timpani.

[1917]

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Vladimir Mayakovsky
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