Twenty first. Night. Monday

Twenty first. Night. Monday.
Contours of the capital in the mist.
Composed as some slacker,
What is love on earth.

And because of laziness or boredom
all believe, and live:
waiting visits, fear of separation
And sing love songs.

But otherwise open secret,
And rest on their silence…
I stumbled on it by accident
And since everything seems ill.

1917
Petersburg

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Anna Akhmatova
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