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On the Hills of Georgia

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Night over Georgia; mist across the heights.

Loud flows the Argava River above.

Only my chained and prancing heart's distress

remains intense, a pain so filled with you--

totally you--that all its darkness lights.

How can I help, combustible anew,

but live in love, even a bitter love?--

being powerless to live in lovelessness.

By Alexander Pushkin Translated from the Russian by Peter Viereck

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