Everything is looted, spoiled, despoiled,
Death flickering his black wing,
Anguish, hunger—then why this
Lightness overlaying everything?
By day, cherry-scent from an unknown
Wood near the town. July
Holding new constellations, deep
At night in the transparent sky—
Nearer to filthy ruined houses
Flies the miraculous . . .
Nobody has ever known it,
This, always so dear to us.


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

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