Anna Akhmatova
Ah, you thought I’d be the type
You could forget,
And that praying and sobbing, I’d throw myself
Under the hooves of a bay.
Or I would beg from the witches
Some kind of root in charmed water
And send you a terrible gift-
My intimate, scented handkerchief.
Damned if I will. Neither by glance nor by groan
Will I touch your cursed soul,
But I vow to you by the garden of angels,
By the miraculous icon I vow
And by the fiery passion of our nights-
I will never return to you.
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