A poem by Alexander Block – Alexandre Block – Alexandr Blok – Александр Блок
(1880-1921)

Halls grew darker and somehow faded.

Grates of windows drowned in black.

Every knight, every beautiful lady

Knew the tiding: “The Queen’s deadly sick.”

And the king, very silent and frowned,

Passed the doors, lost of pages and slaves …

Every word, that by chance cast around,

Proved the truth of the closing grave.

By the doors of the silent abode

I was crying, while pressing the brace …

At the end of the passage remote

Someone echoed me, hiding his face.

By the doors of the Beautiful Lady

I was sobbing, attired in blue …

And the stranger of ashen face sadly

Echoed me all my sufferings through.

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