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Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.

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
Turns
Grieving
Woman
Insignificant
Death
Suffered
Seems
Chose
Doe
Deny
Women
Concern
Heart
Seem
Never
Turn
Grieve

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A loss, but who still mourns the breath of one woman, or laments one wife? Though my heart never can forget, how, for one look, she gave up her life.
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The secret of secrets is inside me again.
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Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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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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How the miracle of our meeting Shone there and sang, I didn't want to return From there to anywhere. Happiness instead of duty Was bitter delight to me. Not obliged to speak to anyone, I spoke for a long while. Let passions stifle lovers, Demanding answers, We, my dear, are only souls At the limits of the world.
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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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Natural thunder heralds the wetness of fresh water high clouds to quench the thirst of fields gone dry and parched, a messenger of blessed rain, but this was as dry as hell must be. My distraught perception refused to believe it, because of the insane suddenness with which it sounded, swelled and hit, and how casually it came to murder my child.
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And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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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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As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
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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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Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
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Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
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I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
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Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.
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