Evening room

I am speaking those words,
That are born only once in the shower.
Buzzing bee on a white chrysanthemum,
So stuffy smell of old sachets.

And the room, where the windows are too narrow,
Stores love and remember the old days,
And over the bed of the inscription - French
voice: “Lord, have pity on us” .

You are sad tales of old notes,
my soul, do not touch it and do not look…
Look, brilliant Sevres figurines
Faded glossy coats.

Last beam, and yellow and heavy,
Stood in a bouquet of bright dahlia,
And in my dreams I hear the sound of the viola
And rare harpsichord chords.

<1912>

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Anna Akhmatova
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