we don’t need someone else’s land, but we won’t give up our own, no, igor rasteryaev leningradskaya althoughreasons in the soul for melancholy, miracles sometimes flashes of night, thoughts rake, as if i would come to the caravan of the machine row. among them are above. the caravan of cars is gaining momentum, you are tearing with you into different rings with the end of death through the window, then a crack in the face in the chest, a metronome chair, the city is waiting for torment, having fooled one. maybe in this world, somewhere at the machine, she dropped the key, a child's hand flashes behind the glass along with the sky. so the front one got up and went under the ice, wishing to apologize hundreds of bells, i was ozelentsov on the right. how many of you are those who left, so and not knowing. who won. here is a whirlwind of doubt, just zhalgaz. it's you who are mine. i don’t break through the snowy delirium, i share seven decades before us, i just want you to know that you are in your paradise, because of you i am standing here now. we were waiting for the war, for good, not everyo