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ANNENSKY, Innokenty


Ideal


The dull sounds of gas flares

Above the dead brightness of heads,

The tedium’s black contagion

From deserted tables,


And there, among the sallow-faced,

Harbouring the anguish of the habit,

Trying to solve on the discoloured pages

The odious puzzle of being.



Incantation


Through the tall gates,

From beyond the Okhta marshes,

On the un-travelled track,

Through the un-mown meadow,

Past the cordon of night,

At the chime of Easter bells,

Uninvited,

Un-promised:

Come; sit to the table with me.