Akhmatova

Late at night.  Monday.  The twenty-third.
The capital's outlines in the mists.
Some idiot's given us the word,
He's informed the world that love exists.

And out of boredom or laziness
Everyone believes and lives that way:
They all look forward to trysts, no less,
They sing their love songs night and day.

But to some, the secret's revealed,
The smallest silence weighs like a brick...
I too stumbled on what was concealed.
Since then I've felt as if I was sick.



1917



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