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1

You stood half-turned to me,
Chest and your hand seems to me.

Mother forbids you to approach,
I - the temptation to offend you!

Not, I lowered my eyes in vain,
breathes, persecutes, close - thunderstorm…

My eyes lit on your cheek,
The thrill of running through the shaking hand…

There is a growing range of your fire me,
You, not looking, looking at me!

Ash veiled rapid fire -
Your not looking, rolling your eyes!

Not! Not reconcile this black blood
Even - date, even - love!

2 January 1914

Most Read Block verses


All poems of Alexander Blok

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