Birds of death fading out at zenith, Who will rescue the city of Lenin? Do not make a noise, it breathes, It is still alive and it hears us: As his sons whimper down in sleep, While lying away in the deep. As from abyss of it cry Goes up to heaven: why? But this citadel has no mercy. And death looking down — thirsty. And it keeps its guard everywhere. And no leave out there of fear.
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24 марта 2023 г. в 17:55
Примечания:
Ахматова