Горячие уста
Не ты ли, о вестница ночи, когда сомкнул я мои усталые глаза, своими жаркими устами – мне расписала щеки снами?
Was it not you, today in night, barely closed I half-eyes, when moon arose – so tenderly and beautifully painted hot lips? They like heat of thousand fires, colors of ripe cherries – on cheeks my.
Was it not you, oh messenger of night, when closed I mine wearily eyes, with your burning lips – to me painted cheeks with dreams?
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