Blows the swan wind,
The blue sky's smeared
With blood; the anniversary
Of your love's first days draws near.
You have destroyed
My sorcery; like water the years
Have drifted by. Why
Aren't you old, but as you were?
Your tender voice even more ringing
Only your serene brow
Has taken from time's wing
A scattering of snow.


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

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