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.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 2404 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Anna Akhmatova
Poem: Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Poem of the Day on:
Sep 8 2005
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