I will quietly in the churchyardSleep on wooden boards in the sun,On the Sunday as guest to motherYou will come, my dear one --Through the river over the mountainCan't catch up to grown onesFrom afar, the sharp-eyed fellow,This my cross you'll recognize.I know, dear one, very littleCan you now recall of me:Did not scold you, did not fawn you,Did not hold the cup to thee.
-Anna Akhmatova
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