first warning

What do we actually deal,
That everything turns to dust,
Over how many abysses sang
And how many living mirrors.
I do not let the dream, not otrada
And least of all grace,
But, may be, more, than necessary,
You'll have to remember –
And the buzz dies down lines,
And the eye, that hides at the bottom
The rusty barbed wreath
The disturbing its silence.
6 June 1963

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Anna Akhmatova
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