Russian Twentieth-Century Poetry
London Review Bookshop Podcast
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The World May Be Pure Snow, a Starry Road, Just Northern Forest
Frost's wordless spell has made your letter dumb. Memory has veiled much evil. Her long lies leave nothing to believe. There may be no cities or green gardens, only fields of ice and salty oceans. The letters melt, drip, tear, calling me home. And am shell finish with a mysterious poem. Not sure whether the address that is going to be mentioned is god or an audience.
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