while listening the singing
like a wind, voice of woman is flying,
seems the black one and wet and of night,
and the things it is easily touching –
all become of the other one kind.
it floods all with the diamond glaring,
somewhere something it silvers for flash,
and, with its unbelievable dressing
of a silk, it is making a splash.
and such strengths, such unusual powers
carry forward the spellbound voice,
as if farther is not grave of ours,
but a ladder the heaven across.
anna akhmatova
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