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Twenty-First. Night. Monday
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User Rating:
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5.0
/10
(15 votes)
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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.
Anna Akhmatova
| Submitted Date |
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Friday, January 03, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: sick, believe, silence, fear, people, night, time, love
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