Twenty-first. Night. Monday. <br />Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. <br />Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why-- <br />made up the tale that love exists on earth. <br /> <br />People believe it, maybe from laziness <br />or boredom, and live accordingly: <br />they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting, <br />and when they sing, they sing about love. <br /> <br />But the secret reveals itself to some, <br />and on them silence settles down... <br />I found this out by accident <br />and now it seems I'm sick all the time.<br /><br />Anna Akhmatova<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/twenty-first-night-monday/
