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On chilly night, when drunk on rum,

sleep wallows in my attic room,

the moon grows darker from its sins,

when, strangled upon night's sharp rim,

right there - above me - fear hangs,

it's then I offer my pale hand

to you - you strange and furtive man

so tame, wild and swarthy, very handsome,

and only nineteen years this fall,

but having seen and knowing all,

with your independent creed,

yet searching for me - mine indeed,

and having fallen, wept and erred,

but your boyish tenderness preserved -

to take my domineering hand:

I make you brave, feel more a man.

We'll wash the moon of sin. Come, dear,

we'll rid ourselves of the corpse of fear,

and with the voice of a ship we'll blast -

the kind, night voice of my Bourgas.

And when the night backs with the moon

and when the sun showers treasure down

then having outgrown your fantasy

you'll set off smiling, next to me.


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