Anna Akhmatova

(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966 / Odessa)

Twenty-First. Night. Monday - Poem by Anna Akhmatova

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.


Comments about Twenty-First. Night. Monday by Anna Akhmatova

  • Rookie - 184 Points Brian Jani (5/29/2014 2:26:00 PM)

    Nice job anna (Report) Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Rookie Richard Hexem (4/1/2010 6:24:00 PM)

    I like this. A very interesting write. (Report) Reply

Read all 2 comments »



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Read poems about / on: sick, believe, silence, fear, people, night, time, love



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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