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Solitude

 So many stones have been thrown at me,
That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders, May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier, Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat.
.
.
As for my unfinished page, The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm And delicate, will finish it.

Poem by Anna Akhmatova
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