You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,
Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.
Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.
You Thought I Was That Type
Anna Akhmatova
(1)
Poem topics: fire, magic, never, soul, grant, single, garden, precious, miracle, forget, terrible, gift, thought, swear, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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