'The bridge of logs is black and twisted,'


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.


facebook share button twitter share button google plus share button tumblr share button reddit share button email share button share on pinterest pinterest

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add 'The bridge of logs is black and twisted,' to your own personal library.

Return to the Anna Akhmatova Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; 'The evening light is broad and yellow,'

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.