All morning pigeon cooing - Pasternak

Morning dove cooed
on the gutters,
As raw sleeves shirts,
Mertveli branches.
it's spitting. Nalehke
We walked the dusty clouds of the market,
Tosca at the market stalls,
I'm afraid, my
Bayucha.
I begged them to stop.
It seemed - stop
Dawn was gray, as a dispute in the bushes,
As they say the prisoners.
I begged the hour,
When the windows you
Mountainous glacier
Raging washbasin
And the songs of split pieces,
The heat naspannoy cheeks and forehead
The glass is hot, like ice,
On the pier-glass table pours.
But the height of the dialect under the banner
going clouds
Heard pleas
The powdered silence,
soaked, such as overcoat,
As an echo of the dusty threshing,
A loud argument in the bushes.
I asked them -
Do not torture!
I can not sleep.
But - morosylo, and, stamping,
We walked the dusty clouds of the market,
As recruits, for farm, in the morning,
Brel is not the time, no Ages,
As prisoners Austrians,
How quiet rattle,
As wheeze:
"To drink,
sister ».

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Vladimir Mayakovsky
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