They live under a cloud of gray…

They live under a cloud of gray.
January foreign to them and not necessary.
They do not remember the chords,
I learned.

I kept silent and all yearn.
their words are pale and dark.
I remember the blue
Azure my homeland.

How strange it all the questions
Meet the silence and the question!
But they were nice iron scythes
My flowing hair.

Their surprise is not insulting,
But in the early evening hours
I sometimes feel ashamed
My braids splayed.

October 1902

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Alexander Blok
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