I haven't locked the door,
Nor lit the candles,
You don't know, don't care,
That tired I haven't the strength
To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in
The sunset murk of pine-needles,
And to know all is lost,
That life is a cursed hell:
I've got drunk
On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you'd come back.
Anna Akhmatova
2 comments:
Brilliant... I've liking this Akhmatova very much.
I'm glad. She's one of my favorite poets.
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