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Grey branches, dull thuds.
Apples falling in late November, and we
gather them with frozen hands.

Am I wrong?

or did you say something,
not tearing your eyes from the ground?

Something like "evil will triumph,"
you said quietly.
As if the tundra's beyond us. As if we're gathering stones in our skirts.

                  (Text of the poem in the original Russian)

Anzhelina Polonskaya

American Poetry Review

March / April 2012

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