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Here Pushkin’s Endless Exile Has Begun

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Here Pushkin’s endless exile has begun,
And Lermontov’s exile turned out fatal,
The mountain grass has a smell so sweet and gentle,
And only once I managed to discern,
By the lake under the dense shade of a chinara,
In the early evening and ferocious trice
The glare of insatiable dark eyes
Of the immortal lover of Tamara.

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