Anna Akhmatova. (№ 277210)

I more my feet don't,
Let them turn into a fishtail!
Floating and enjoying the cool
White dim distant bridge.
I do not need the souls of the humble,
Let it be smoke, light smoke,
Soaring over the embankment black
It will be pale blue.
See how deep dive
Hold onto algae hand
Draws I don't repeat words
And would not be attracted by anyone's longing...
And you, my far, really
Became pale and sad-it?
What do you hear? Three weeks
All whisper: "Poor, why?!"