If the Moon on the skies Does not Roam
If the moon on the skies does not roam,
But cools, like a seal above,
My dead husband enters the home
To read the letters of love.
He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.
He watches the times of the meetings
And the signatures' blurry set.
Hasn't had he sufficiently grievings
And pains in this word until that?
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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This Evening’s Light Is Golden Bright
This evening's light is golden bright,
The April’s coolness is so tender,
Though you are many years too late,
I still do welcome you to enter.
Right next to me why don't you sit
And look with happy eyes around.
This little notebook has in it
The poems written in my childhood.
Forgive me that I've lived and mourned,
And was not grateful for the sun rays…
Forgive me please, forgive me for
I have mistaken you for others…
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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Love
As a snake, coiling up in a knot,
At the very heart she's conjuring.
Or the whole day she's like tiny dove
On the window white tender cooing.
Or she sparkles in hoar-frost bright,
And in dozing - like a gillyflower...
But she surely, secretly guides
You from a pleasure and from a quiet.
She can sweetly and plaintively cry
In a prayer of boring violin,
And is awe now to guess her in smile,
Yet unknown, though such greeting.
poem by Anna Akhmatova (24 November 1911), translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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Under Her Dark Veil
Under her dark veil she wrung her hands.
"Why are you so pale today?"
"Because I made him drink of stinging grief
Until he got drunk on it.
How can I forget? He staggered out,
His mouth twisted in agony.
I ran down not touching the bannister
And caught up with him at the gate.
I cried: 'A joke!
That's all it was. If you leave, I'll die.'
He smiled calmly and grimly
And told me: 'Don't stand here in the wind.' "
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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Memory of Sun
Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
Grass grows yellower.
Faintly if at all the early snowflakes
Hover, hover.
Water becoming ice is slowing in
The narrow channels.
Nothing at all will happen here again,
Will ever happen.
Against the sky the willow spreads a fan
The silk's torn off.
Maybe it's better I did not become
Your wife.
Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
What is it? -- Dark?
Perhaps! Winter will have occupied us
In the night.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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You'll live, but I'll not; perhaps
You'll live, but I'll not; perhaps,
The final turn is that.
Oh, how strongly grabs us
The secret plot of fate.
They differently shot us:
Each creature has its lot,
Each has its order, robust, --
A wolf is always shot.
In freedom, wolves are grown,
But deal with them is short:
In grass, in ice, in snow, --
A wolf is always shot.
Don't cry, oh, friend my dear,
If, in the hot or cold,
From tracks of wolves, you'll hear
My desperate recall.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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My hands clasped under a veil
My hands clasped under a veil, dim and hazy…
'Why are you so pale and upset?'
That’s because I today made him crazy
With the sour wine of regret.
Can't forget! He got out, astound,
With his mouth distorted by pain...
I, not touching the railing, ran down,
I was running to him till the lane.
Fully choked, I cried, 'That's a joke --
All that was. You get out, I'll die.'
And he smiled very calmly, like stroke:
'It is windy right here -- pass by.'
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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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:
they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
and when they sing, they sing about love.
But the secret reveals itself to some,
and on them silence settles down...
I found this out by accident
and now it seems I'm sick all the time.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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Everything
Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?
By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.
And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no-one, no-one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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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 sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier,
Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room
The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat...
As for my unfinished page,
The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm
And delicate, will finish it.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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