From: ibshambat@gmail.com   
      
   He was jealous, fearful and tender,   
   He loved me like God's only light,   
   And that she not sing of the past times   
   He killed my bird colored white.   
      
   He said, in the lighthouse at sundown:   
   "Love me, laugh and write poetry!"   
   And I buried the joyous songbird   
   Behind a round well near a tree.   
      
   I promised that I would not mourn her.   
   But my heart turned to stone spite my choice,   
   And it seems to me that everywhere   
   And always I'll hear her sweet voice.   
      
   By Anna Akhmatova   
   Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat   
   https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)