You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I’d plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,
Or that I’d ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.
Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.
(Anna Akhmatova)
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Based on Topics: Night Poems, Fire Poems, Charity Poems, Angels Poems, Garden Poems, Sign & Symbol PoemsBased on Keywords: forget, precious, smoke, ask, thought, roots, terrible, swear, bay, weep, damn