 
                                                                                                    05/10/2025
                                            Sunday Shala  🪔 
Nobody came to meet me
    With a lantern,
Had to find my way up
    The steps by weak moonlight 
And there he was, under 
    The green lamp, and 
With a corpse’s smile
    He whispered, ‘Your voice 
Is strange, Cinderella...’
    Fire dying in the hearth,
Cricket chirping, Ah!
    Someone’s taken my shoe
As a souvenir, and with 
    Lowered eyes given me
Three carnations. 
    Dear mementoes,
Where can I hide you?
    And it’s a bitter thought 
That my little white shoe
    Will be tried by everyone. 
~ Anna Akhmatova                                        
 
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     
                                         
   
   
   
   
     
   
   
  