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I've come back to my city. These are my own old tears, My own little veins, the swollen glands of my childhood.

So you're back. Open wide. Swallow The fish oil from the river lamps of Leningrad.

Open your eyes. Do you know this December day, The egg-yolk with the deadly tar beaten into it?

Petersburg! I don't want to die yet! You know my telephone numbers.

Petersburg! I've still got the addresses: I can look up dead voices.

I live on back stairs, and the bell, Torn out nerves and all, jangles in my temples.

And I wait till morning for guests that I love, And rattle the door in its chains.

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