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174
Piotr Oreshin
8
Grow
On my hairy belly,
And in the stony fir-trees
Gray wolves,
In cope and coif,
Having lit a taper,
Serve
The mass.
9
Not by hands created,
I roll my eyes heavily
As roll the mill-stones
Of the blue
Mills
Of heaven.
10
I chew the cud of gray clouds,
And
Think
Of perishing brothers
With my wise
Cheerful belly.
