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

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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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You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
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If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.
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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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As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
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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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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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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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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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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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Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.
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Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground whisk the lamps away.
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The stars of death stood over us. And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed under the crunch of bloodstained boots, under the wheels of Black Marias.
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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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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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Wild honey smells of freedom The dust - of sunlight The mouth of a young girl, like a violet But gold - smells of nothing.
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I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise.
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