The Script On a Book by Anna Akhmatova
11:22 PM


The given by you - is yours.
Shota Rustavely


From under what deaf ruins I speak rhyme,
From under what an avalanche cry out:
Like I am burning in the white quicklime
Under the volts of chambers underground.

I’ll simulate a winter, mute and lost,
And close, fast, the ever opened entrance,
But they will hear my alone voice,
And trust in it will be their final sentence.

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Шеќернолимонова
tea with sugar gives me the cramps