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528 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2006
Enough freezing me with fear,
I'll invoke Bach's chaconne
and a man will enter when it's over
who will not be my beloved husband,
but we together will be so fearsome
that the twentieth century will be shaken to the root.
Not wanting to I confused him
with the mysterious envoy of destiny,
the one with whom bitter suffering would arrive.
He'll come to my Fontanka Palace,
very late, on that night of fog,
to toast the New Year with wine.
And he will keep in his memory Epiphany night,
the maple tree at the window, the nuptial candles
and the mortal flight of the poem . . .
But it is not the first bouquet of lilies,
nor the ring, nor the sweet prayers:
It's death, that's what he brings me.