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It seems to me, we won't go away far off,
It looks like we locked up.
Everyone has his own city and home,
And we are caught in this net;
And there, where I sang, you're no more than a guest,
Though I sang not for them.
But we'll become such as they see us –
You'll come back home,
And I home,
And all with theirs own.
But, really – what for we us?
For us and so don't have enough of the day
To be in time along all hands,
Which want you and me.
And only when I'll be singing,
Where strangers views and smoke,
I know who will stand before me,
And will compel me,
And will order me
Once more stay alive.
Strange objects between light and sound (instrumental)
A. (Dyusha) Romanov