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Home ⇒ 💗Anna Akhmatova ⇒ Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Twenty-first. Night. Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing who knows why
Made up the tale that love exists on earth.

People believe it, maybe from laziness
Or boredom, and live accordingly:
They wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
And when they sing, they sing about love.

But the secret reveals itself to some,
And on them silence settles down…
I found this out by accident
And now it seems I’m sick all the time.


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Poem Twenty-First. Night. Monday - Anna Akhmatova
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