'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.
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'The bridge of logs is black and twisted,' to your library.