It is your lynx eyes, Asia,
That spied something in me,
Teased it out, occult
And born of stillness,
Oppressive and difficult
Like the noon heat in Termez.
As though pre-memory's years
Flowed like lava into the mind . . .
As if I were drinking my own tears
From a stranger's cupped hands.


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

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