Indian summer - Pasternak

currant rough sheet and cloth.
The house of laughter and glass ring,
It chopped, and kvass, and pepper,
And carnations put in the marinade.
Wood throws, as a mocker,
This noise is on a steep slope,
Where the sun burned hazel
Like a fever fire scorched.
Here the road descends into the ravine,
Here and withered old snags,
And loskutnitsy autumn sorry,
All this sweeping ravine.
And that, that the universe is easier,
The other believes dodger,
That as the water is lowered grove,
What comes around its end.

That eyes slam pointless,
When all before you burned
And autumn white soot
Gossamer is pulling out of the window.

The course of the garden fence Dig
And lost in the birch forest.
In the house laughing and household hubbub,
The same chatter and laughter in the distance.

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Alexander Blok
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