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Thursday, June 7, 2012

Willow by Anna Akhmatova

And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, 
In the cool nursery of the young century. 
And the voice of man was not dear to me, 
But the voice of the wind I could understand. 
But best of all the silver willow. 
And obligingly, it lived 
With me all my life; it's weeping branches 
Fanned my insomnia with dreams. 
And strange!--I outlived it. 
There the stump stands; with strange voices 
Other willows are conversing 
Under our, under those skies. 
And I am silent...As if a brother had died.

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