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The room grows white hopelessness, Howls creaking rustle at night And promised poisons with opportunity, With callousness it is strewed, as gunpowder. I move hands thin, Still without having overcome a shiver in wrists fragile, I collect the movements fragile And pack of cranes I fill up the faded. Belief – the only thing that remained, Hope for performance of a condition: The miracle broke up to lumps of paper – Million zhuravlik – it is a utopia

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