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Оксимирон и Би-2 -
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…
’Tis thy affection’s on tip of a golden string,
With salt box of my minds chattering in beseech,
Thou art canvas for a willow I never leaned on,

Arbor emptied occluded by autumn early come,
Th’ stone giant’s rooted like a loner in candle spark,
Door’s wheezing for mother nay listened to her wench,
Th’ bench waiting for th’ nurse called long agone for lunch.