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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345058" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Memory of M.B.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345058" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,<br>not sticks of burning incense.<br>You lived aloof, maintaining to the end<br>your magnificent disdain.<br>You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,<br>and suffocated inside stifling walls.<br>Alone you let the terrible stranger in,<br>and stayed with her alone.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345058" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Now you're gone, and nobody says a word<br>about your troubled and exalted life.<br>Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn<br>at your dumb funeral feast.<br>Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I<br>, I, sick with grief for the buried past,<br>I, smoldering on a slow fire,<br>having lost everything and forgotten all,<br>would be fated to commemorate a man<br>so full of strength and will and bright inventions,<br>who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me, <br>hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Anna+Akhmatova">Anna Akhmatova</a></strong></div>