Saturday, 24 September 2011

We're no good at saying good-bye.
We wander around, shoulders touching.
It's begun to get dark already.
You look vacant, I say nothing.

We'll stop in this church and see
someone buried, or christened or married.
We'll leave, avoiding each other's eyes.
Why does nothing work out for us?

Or we'll go in this graveyard and sit
where someone had already sat on the snow
and you'll draw with the end of your stick
dream-chambers where we'll live forever.

Anna Akhmatova (1917)

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