soz dressed up in a red saraf, floated burning the air, a fiery thief, kites without wings beat at random the wings of the birches, the floor moved, making a table, more russian, golden shoulder straps. the fight was stubborn, the night was choking on bony fingers, death was keeping its score, the pain, the rusty earth, were saturated. tears of crying and sorrow splashed into the eyes, the sky was choked, though without a face, a child’s tear fell from the sky , flocks of 47 strikos flew in with blood. pouring over the wings of the birches, the field moved, making a table. russian displeasure with golden shoulder straps, hit direct fire. a machine gun clearly hit in the middle, shooting in the mouth, scattered into pieces, blue eyes, the field was flooded, scarlet dew. thanks a lot. good mood to you all. we walk beautifully, sing along as much as we can. on stage, evgeny grigoriev. calm down, not everything is in vain, but the fire burns in eyes, we speak, like strangers in two different languages, silently between the lines , in a lively way at odds, every day has become like everyone el