Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Anna Akhmatova

Twenty-first. Night. Monday.

Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.

Some good-for-nothing–who knows why–

made up the tale that love exists on earth.

People believe it, maybe from laziness

or boredom, and live accordingly:

they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,

and when they sing, they sing about love.

But the secret reveals itself to some,

and on them silence settles down...

I found this out by accident

and now it seems I'm sick all the time.

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One Poem Only submissions are now open.

I’m looking for poetry that lets the light in. Selected works from this submission period will be episodes around the winter solstice. In the ancient tradition, I’m looking for words that celebrate rebirth, renewal, and a return to the light. Deadline is Thursday, October 30.

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