Anna Akhmatova

And of you, O my first inclination,
I took leave. The East was coming blue.
“I’ll remember,” you artlessly mentioned.
Not at once then I trusted in you.

They arise and they vanish – the faces:
Now you’re here, but afar in the morn.
Why of this only one of all pages,
Had I once bent a corner for long?

Every time this book opens mere 
In the same place, and it’s very strange:
As it was a last trice – all is here –
As if years had not passed from that edge.

He, who said, “Heart is made of a stone”,
Had a thought: “Just a flame is the stuff” …
I will never discern: you’re my own 
Or was only with me in a love.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April 19, 2008
Corrected May-June 2008