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Twenty-First. Night. Monday
(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966 / Odessa)

Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Poem By Anna Akhmatova

Twenty-first. Night. Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why--
made up the tale that love exists on earth.

People believe it, maybe from laziness
or boredom, and live accordingly:
they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
and when they sing, they sing about love.

But the secret reveals itself to some,
and on them silence settles down...
I found this out by accident
and now it seems I'm sick all the time.

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Comments (2)

Nice job anna
I like this. A very interesting write.


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