We're all drunkards here. Harlots.
Joylessly we're stuck together.
On the walls, scarlet
Flowers, birds of a feather,
Pine for clouds. Your black pipe
Makes strange shapes rise.
I wear my skirt tight
To my slim thighs.
Windows tightly shut.
What's that? Frost? Thunder?
Did you steal your eyes, I wonder,
From a cautious cat?
О my heart, how you yearn
For your dying hour . . .
And that woman dancing there
Will eternally burn.

1 January 1913


Бібліотека ім. Анни Ахматової >> Твори >> Переклади >> Збірки віршів (англ. мова)

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