burned book

Already emblazoned on the bookshelf
Your sister prosperous,
And of thy flocks stellar debris
And under thee embers fire.
How do you prayed, how you want to live,
How are you afraid of caustic fire!
But suddenly your body quivered,
A voice, flying away, cursed me.
And all at once rustled pine
And echoed in the depths of lunar water.
A round the sacred fire of spring
We were already grave dance.

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Anna Akhmatova
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