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.
Twenty-first. Night. Monday
Anna Akhmatova
(1)
Poem topics: believe, fear, night, people, sick, silence, time, earth, good, wait, secret, live, monday, love, I love you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
Submit Spanish Translation
Submit German Translation
Submit French Translation
Write your comment about Twenty-first. Night. Monday poem by Anna Akhmatova
Best Poems of Anna Akhmatova