Whether to look for you on earth --I don't know if you're dead or you live --Or about you in the eveningI should for you, departed, grieve.All is for you: and the daily prayerAnd the sleeplessness' swooning flameAnd the white flock of my poemsAnd my eyes' blue violent flame.No one was dearer to me, no one,No one left me this bereft,Not even he who betrayed me to torment,Not even he who caressed, then left.
-Anna Akhmatova
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