Lindens at the end of bloom stand golden,
noiseless.
“There used to be dungeons here,” Neborak
said. Oh, the echo of ancient undergrounds
with names like those of girls or taverns—
“Dorotka,” “Under Angel,” and the one,
the cruelest “Tatarnia,” where eyes died first
and light hid in the armpits,
in the tongueless mouths!
This silence is meaningless now. It’s not even
a monument. And [...]

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