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Sergey Kurbatov




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The heart is pricked
Beneath my step the shadow
Of a flying bird.


Ink on the paper
Follows this new snow,
Melting


Edge of forest
From the empty space
The darkness of the field.


Time to return
Inside your eyes so bright
Reflections of the sun.


The fresco of the sunrise
The thread of cobweb
In downpour of leaves.


Late autumn,
Our path is covered by leaves
Oblivion


The china cup
Is dropped
Dry leaves.


translated by Sergey Kurbatov

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