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Pushkin

Beautiful man looking around

with hair like iron and the eyes of a clown,

darting across the street at the first

sign of a break in the parade of carriages,

a sheaf of political poems under your arm:

I love you and miss you after all these centuries.

I am saddest, I guess, about your scandal-torn marriage

that ended with gunplay and you falling down.

I picture the single smokey burst

and can't help but wonder why you let him shoot first.

On that frozen day, had you no intention of bringing harm

to anyone at all, you gentleman -- not even young d'Anthés?