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Sometimes it seems to me that the lines
Is not on the love I will not write in the future.
All my poetry on other to shreds
I tear and cast into the furnace to burn its there.
Long times my road runs from the mountains,
Who knows how long is a remained days to me.
Only one the life is, but a many lifes should be,
My love should be enough on all.
And wherever I am, what would I have become,
Let only the love lives in my poetry.
To rest ahead of me is not much,
To write on any trivia.
Hurry up to fill, mountain man, a granaries,
The autumn leaves — ahead the winter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem