on my still living breast.
Confess: I was prepared,
am somehow ready for the test.
So much to do today:
kill memory, kill pain,
turn heart into a stone,
and yet prepare to live again.
Not quite. Hot summer’s feast
brings rumors of carouse.
How long have I foreseen
this brilliant day, this empty house?
[Anna Akhmatova, "The Sentence" in Poems of Akhmatova]
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