|
In the hours at the table...
In the hours at the table. An impossibly white page. The mimosa smells of Nice and warmth. A large bird flies in the moonlight's path. And making your braid tight for the night, As if you would need braids tomorrow, Through the window I'm looking, sad no more, At the sea, the sandy slopes. What power does a man have, Who doesn't ask for tenderness! My tired eyes I cannot raise, When my name he calls.
by Anna Akhmatova |