'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.


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

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