He was jealous, fearful and tender,He loved me like God's only light,And that she not sing of the past timesHe killed my bird colored white.He said, in the lighthouse at sundown:"Love me, laugh and write poetry!"And I buried the joyous songbirdBehind a round well near a tree.I promised that I would not mourn her.But my heart turned to stone without choice,And it seems to me that everywhereAnd always I'll hear her sweet voice.
-Anna Akhmatova
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