When I turned the soul,
It was found out there
I realized how it was stuffy
Inside to sit.
Out of the darkness was in the light,
Not speaking to anyone about this,
Trying to honor other covenants
But all wanted to fly.
And yet I did not become dust,
The dry grass of the steppe, feather-grass. . .
Hurry, hurry and grow wings
To empty my crate.
Arseniy Sparrows.
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