Twenty-First. Night. Monday Anna Akhmatova 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 lazinessor 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 accidentand now it seems I'm sick all the time.

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