'The bridge of logs is black and twisted,'
by Anna Akhmatova
The bridge of logs is black and twisted,
The burdocks stand shoulder high,
And a thick forest of nettles sings
Of how the bright sickle will never reap here.
At evening over the lake there's a sighing,
And rough moss creeps along the walls.
Crowd Score: 3.0
Want to save this story?
Create a free account to build your personal library of favorite stories
Sign Up - It's Free!Already have an account? Log in