blackened, twisted log bridge

blackened, twisted log bridge,
And there are mugs in human growth,
And nettle dense forest sing,
That will not work on them, not blesnet hair.
Evenings on the lake heard a sigh,
And on the walls raspolzsya gnarled moss.

I met there
Twenty-one.
Sweet mouth was
Black sultry honey.

The branches tore me
Dress white silk,
On Gnarlpine
Nightingale does not Molk.

A conditional cry
Come out of the hole,
Like a wild devil,
A sweeter sister.

A mountain run,
Swim across the river,
So that then
I will not say: leave.

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Anna Akhmatova
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