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Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.
Anna Akhmatova
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Anna Akhmatova
Age: 76 †
Born: 1889
Born: June 23
Died: 1966
Died: March 5
Author
Literary Critic
Literary Scholar
Poet
Translator
Writer
Odesa
Anna Andreyevna Gorenko
Anna Achmatova
Anna Ahmatova
Anna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Akhmatova
Silent
Reverent
Air
Observes
Attention
Burns
White
Fragrance
Song
Falls
Fall
Knees
Music
Dumb
Everything
Winter
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If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory.
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Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
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The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.
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We thought: we're poor, we have nothing, but when we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poems about God's great generosity and our former riches.
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Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again. Unless ... Summer's ardent rustling is like a festival outside my window.
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This Cruel Age has deflected me.
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I myself, from the very beginning, Seemed to myself like someone's dream or delirium Or a reflection in someone else's mirror, Without flesh, without meaning, without a name. Already I knew the list of crimes That I was destined to commit.
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You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
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We are all carousers and loose women here How unhappy we are together!
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I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.
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Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
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Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all.
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Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Nobody dared.
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And this tenderness was not like That which a certain poet At the beginning of the century called true And, for some reason, quiet. No, not at all It rang out, like the first waterfall, It crunched like the crust of bluish ice And it prayed with a swanlike voice, And it broke down right before our eyes.
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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot survivor of that time, that place.
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My shadow serves as the friend I crave
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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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Let whoever wants to, relax in the south, And bask in the garden of paradise. Here is the essence of northand it's autumn I've chosen as this year's friend.
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