Reader

It should not be very unhappy
AND, the main thing, secretive. Oh no! –
To be clear contemporary,
The whole wide open will open the poet.

And the ramp sticks underfoot,
All deathly, empty, light,
Lime-light cold flame
Ego condemned forehead.

Each A reader as the mystery,
As the land of buried treasure,
Let the last, random,
All my life I did not say anything in a row.

Everybody there, that nature zapryachet,
When she pleases, from U.S.
There's someone crying helplessly
At some appointed time.

And how many are there at dusk the night,
I shadow, and how much coolness,
There are those unfamiliar eyes
Up to the light talk to me,

For something to reproach me
And in some agree with me ...
Since confession pouring dumb,
Conversations blessed heat.

Our age on earth fleeting
And too small a designated circle,
A one unchanging and eternal –
Poet unknown friend.
23 July 1959
Komarovo

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Anna Akhmatova
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