Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok (28 November 1880 – 7 August 1921 / Saint Petersburg)
Grass Was Pushing Through
Grass was pushing through earth by the graves, we've forgot.
We've forgot yesterday… We've forgot every word…
Only silence around us sings…
Whether You're not alive? Whether You're not a flash
Due this death of them gone, of them burned to the ash's?
Whether your own heart is not spring?
Only here to breath by these graves and these stones,
Where composed I once those beautiful songs
Of the meeting that's waiting for us…
Where at first into my waxen-colorless face
You had breathed with fresh air of the distant life's grace,
Pushing through as the graveyard's green grass…
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