I Wrung My Hands - Poem by Anna Akhmatova

I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . . “Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?” — Because I have made my loved one drunk with an astringent sadness. I’ll never forget. He went out, reeling; his mouth was twisted, desolate. . . I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters, and followed him as far as the gate. And shouted, choking: “I meant it all in fun.
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