Russian music, tonight, dear correspondents:
Tea with me awhile and let us reminisce,
for nothing recreates for me the steppes,
more in tune with absence, than painful piano keys.
We Russians, our history,
one long-suffering invasion after another.
Thus, my Slavic soul shares the cutting wind
and vastness that is the Russian landscape.
And yes, though it be hard to prove,
I'd venture the guess, that Pyotr Ilyich did suicide,
and made it look like cholera.
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