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by Ivan Peledov 

Old buildings tend to drop books 

on the toes of the tenants.

Unruly, awkward, they let the ghosts invent 

languages and forget them at once.

Empty bottles on the windowsills, empty 

hallways, bricks in the walls 

celebrate the bliss of the voiceless.

Grasshoppers on the roofs are 

in love with the clouds.

Fallen leaves devour the stairs in the park, 

crawl up to the doors, unstoppable.

Time is the worst toothpaste ever made.

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