By Bella Akhmadulina
Today’s – the last day I’m living
In strange such house, alien to me,
As all the other ones,
where I have lived either.
By turning pupils into palms,
The coolness of the day is shining as a heat.
In beautiness of earth there is perfection.
The paper’s white. I know that I should
Enjoy felicity in hour of pleasure,
But mute is soul in the sullen mood.
1965
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