I see always the page that is filled on
By the muddy-black blotches of ink.
I am able from men to be hidden,
But to where could I run from night-s brink?
All that live has become so distant,
That didn-t come - so perfectly watched,
And forgotten lines merge from that instant
Till next dawn into many a blotch.
I-m all there - in impossible answers,
Where the letters of dreams loom in sight...
I like children to be in a house -
And these children to cry in the night.
The Pine Of Reminiscence
Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky
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Poem topics: house, hidden, black, live, impossible, dawn, children, night, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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