Dead it is snowing in the spring,
That for lines, such was not earlier,
It is awful that happens,
The green sun, the red moon,
Our planet perishes, such is our destiny...

And people will leave this world,
And rest beyond the grave will come,
Only ashes in air will fly,
And the wind to whistle in dead mind.

Sooner or later,
Our blue sphere will burst,
Paradise terrestrial will be fired by comets,
Smoke of the decaying nature,
For us waits, waits

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