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12/08/2017

Alexey Fedorov We compose a mysterious book along the way ...



A real journey full of discoveries,
Is not in the search for new landscapes,
But to see everything with a fresh look.

Marcel Proust

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Identification


With an infant cry
To the very "sorry"
Mysterious book
We compose along the way.

Somebody's faces are shy
For every line ...
We draw pages
A trembling hand.

We are cheerful and right,
We skip straight ahead ...
Sweeping Heads
Recorded in the diary.

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Personality

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A piece of the sky

And if you blot
The line is corrupted -
Neither cold nor hot
We from this for now.

We will have time to return,
Hold the horses ...
Think about the page!
There are many days in their life.

What is worse, what's wrong
And who owes whom?
Someday later
Let's fix the draft ...


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Urban Horizons


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Tree of Life

... But late, darling, it's late.
Do not find bridges.
And it becomes threatening
Rustling of sheets.

Offended people,
Forgotten debts ...
It will not be corrected
In the past, no lines.

To whom, we,
Lied without shame,
They leave without saying goodbye,
They leave forever.

Whom we pushed,
Whom we failed ...
Koryavyh Zagugin
In vain do not scrape.

And our story rushes
To the finale ... And then
last page
Will cover a chubby volume.
And so too, belatedly
Wiping tears from my eyes,
As we are different, it happened -
Others will remember us.

Maria Semenova, from the series of books "Wolfhound."


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Eucalyptus Dance


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Speed of light

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Way of the Samurai


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Spread the wings


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Avoid the crowds


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The journey of the soul


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Vladimir Kush Pillow Book

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