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Sergei Esenin

[No crying, calling out, complaining] No crying, calling out, complaining, This all will pass, like the green of gold, Like the white smoke of apple blooms, And I won’t be as young as I used to. Already, your blood isn’t as quick as it was, I tell my heart—and it’s getting colder. White birch roots… Continue reading Sergei Esenin

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