Night, street, lamp, and pharmacy,
A meaningless and misty light.
Live on a quarter century—
The same. There is no hope of flight.
You will die, rise from where you fell,
All be repeated, cold and damp:
The night, the wavering canal,
The pharmacy, the street, the lamp.
-Alexander Blok
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
poetry!
Post a Comment