May be, my corps now there lies.

May be, my corps now there lies.

Forgotten? I’m not even wondered!
Forgotten was I hundred times,
And times, I’m in grave, were too hundred,
May be, my corps now there lies.
And Muse was too deafened and blinded,
Was rotting – a seed – in soils’ mesh,
To rise then to blue of the Highland
Like Phoenix from blackness of ash

Anna Akhmatova

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