"Whatever I looked at was alive, everything had a voice,
but I never found out were you a friend, an enemy,
was it winter, summer? Smoke, singing, midnight heat.
I wrote thousands of lines. Not one told me."

Anna Akhmatova, from “Fragment, 1959,” trans. Stephen Berg (via proustitute)

(via an-itinerant-poet)

@11 months ago with 333 notes
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