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Sviridov Zoryu Biut reversed

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Bugle calls… And from my hands An antique Dante’s book is falling down, Half-read rhyme is melting Upon my lips – My soul is flying far away with the sound of trumpet. You’re my dear living sound, I heard you so oft In the places of my soft Boyhood In olden days. A.S. Pushkin (loosely translated)

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