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I Wrung My Hands

 I wrung my hands under my dark veil.
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?" -- Because I have made my loved one drunk with an astringent sadness.
I'll never forget.
He went out, reeling; his mouth was twisted, desolate.
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters, and followed him as far as the gate.
And shouted, choking: "I meant it all in fun.
Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain.
" He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly -- and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"

by Anna Akhmatova
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