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ANNENSKY, Innokenty


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.


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,



Come; sit to the table with me.