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 I pray to the sunbeam from the window - 
It is pale, thin, straight.
Since morning I have been silent, And my heart - is split.
The copper on my washstand Has turned green, But the sunbeam plays on it So charmingly.
How innocent it is, and simple, In the evening calm, But to me in this deserted temple It's like a golden celebration, And a consolation.

by Anna Akhmatova
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