Quote

Wild honey smells of freedom The dust - of sunlight The mouth of a young girl, like a violet But gold - smells of nothing.

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
Girl
Honey
Young
Wild
Nothing
Mouth
Like
Dust
Smell
Mouths
Violet
Gold
Smells
Freedom
Sunlight

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You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
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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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Let whoever wants to, relax in the south, And bask in the garden of paradise. Here is the essence of north—and it's autumn I've chosen as this year's friend.
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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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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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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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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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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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Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
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Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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My shadow serves as the friend I crave
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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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Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
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A choir of angels glorified the hour, the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire. Father, why hast Thou forsaken me? Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me.
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Now no one will listen to songs. The prophesied days have begun. Latest poem of mine, the world has lost its wonder, Don't break my heart, don't ring out.
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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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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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All has been looted, betrayed, sold black death's wing flashed ahead.
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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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