Anna Akhmatova

But there’re, somewhere, the simple life and light,
Warm, gay and absolutely clear…
There, speaks a neighbor through the fences, light,
With a sweet girl, and only bees can hear –
The gentlest talking of this kind.

But here we live – the solemn ones and toilsome – 
And honor rites of our meetings, sad,
When our speech, just as a bud to blossom,
Is cut by wind, the cold and mad.

But we shall never seek a substitution
For this grand city – our woe and prize – 
The widest rivers’ ever glaring ice,
The gloomy gardens, hidden from beams sun’s
And the Muse voice’s slim illusion.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August, 2002