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And you know, I agree to everything: I will condemn, I will forget, I will give comfort to the enemy, Darkness will be light and sin lovely.

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
Forget
Light
Condemn
Give
Lovely
Everything
Agree
Giving
Sin
Comfort
Darkness
Enemy

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Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
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The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones unspoken phrases, silent words.
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The secret of secrets is inside me again.
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This Cruel Age has deflected me.
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Give me bitter years of sickness, Suffocation, insomnia, fever, Take my child and my lover, And my mysterious gift of song This I pray at your liturgy After so many tormented days, So that the stormcloud over darkened Russia Might become a cloud of glorious rays.
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Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
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Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.
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We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked.
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No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be.
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We learned not to meet anymore, We don't raise our eyes to one another, But we ourselves won't guarantee What could happen to us in an hour.
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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.
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I go forth to seek To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak.
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As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
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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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A land not mine, still forever memorable, the waters of its ocean chill and fresh. Sand on the bottom whiter than chalk, and the air drunk, like wine, late sun lays bare the rosy limbs of the pinetrees. Sunset in the ethereal waves: I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if the secret of secrets is inside me again.
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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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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 fire.
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I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed... here, where I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.
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