Anna Akhmatova
Twenty-First. Night. Monday
Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. Some good-for-nothing who knows why Made up the tale that love exists on earth. People believe it, maybe from laziness Or boredom, and live accordingly:
Sunbeam
I pray to the sunbeam from the window – It is pale, thin, straight. Since morning I have been silent, And my heart – is split. The copper on my washstand Has turned green,
You Thought I Was That Type
You thought I was that type: That you could forget me, And that I’d plead and weep And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare, Or that I’d ask the sorcerers For
Celebrate
Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see Tonight the snowy night of our first winter Comes back again in every road and tree – That winter night of diamantine splendour. Steam is pouring out
Crucifix
Do not cry for me, Mother, seeing me in the grave. I This greatest hour was hallowed and thandered By angel’s choirs; fire melted sky. He asked his Father:”Why am I abandoned…?” And told
How can you bear to look at the Neva?
How can you bear to look at the Neva? How can you bear to cross the bridges?. Not in vain am I known as the grieving one Since the time you appeared to me.
Requiem
Not under foreign skies Nor under foreign wings protected – I shared all this with my own people There, where misfortune had abandoned us. [1961] INSTEAD OF A PREFACE During the frightening years of
Lot's Wife
And the just man trailed God’s shining agent, Over a black mountain, in his giant track, While a restless voice kept harrying his woman: “It’s not too late, you can still look back At
You Will Hear Thunder
You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on
Thunder
There will be thunder then. Remember me. Say ‘ She asked for storms.’ The entire World will turn the colour of crimson stone, And your heart, as then, will turn to fire. That day,
Solitude
So many stones have been thrown at me, That I’m not frightened of them anymore, And the pit has become a solid tower, Tall among tall towers. I thank the builders, May care and
Why Is This Age Worse…?
Why is this age worse than earlier ages? In a stupor of grief and dread Have we not fingered the foulest wounds And left them unhealed by our hands? In the west the falling
March Elegy
I have enough treasures from the past To last me longer than I need, or want. You know as well as I. . . malevolent memory Won’t let go of half of them: A
I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice
I hear the oriole’s always-grieving voice, And the rich summer’s welcome loss I hear In the sickle’s serpentine hiss Cutting the corn’s ear tightly pressed to ear. And the short skirts of the slim
White Night
There will be thunder then. Remember me. Say ‘ She asked for storms.’ The entire World will turn the colour of crimson stone, And your heart, as then, will turn to fire. That day,