The Twelve
City smolders with pieces of light, Crimson tongues lick at the night; With the snows the cries of crows merge, Across the worn-out streets a spirit will verge.
On autumn’s turf lie the black tombs Of men – silent as the world looms, Yet softly breathe the budding trees, To the whispering winds and secret bees.
Nature wakes in savage glares; Zigzagging shadows mask the squares, The cold wind cries, as it seeks to beat, The weary hearts of those in the street.
- Alexandre Blok