CURRENT MOON

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Sunday Akhmatova Blogging


Pushkin


A swarthy youth rambled
by the forsaken lakeshore.
A centry passes, and we hear
his crackle on the path.

Pine needles, thick, thorny,
bury the stumps of trees . . .
Here lay his tricorn hat,
his dog-eared verses by Parny.

~1911

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Did you know that Pushkin was black? He was the descendent of a black man who I believe was brought to Russia as the slave of someone else - not a Russian.