The sky's blue lacquer grows dim,
And louder the song of the flute,
It's only a pipe of clay,
There's no need for its complaint.
Who told it all my sins,
And inspired it to absolve me?...
Or is its voice repeating
Your last poems to me?
Return to the Anna Akhmatova library , or . . . Read the next poem; 'To feel thoroughly ill, to sweat in delirium,'