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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight

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
Hangs
Thread
Tonight

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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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There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.
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All has been looted, betrayed, sold black death's wing flashed ahead.
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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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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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I go forth to seek To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak.
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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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Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
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... he is rewarded with a form of eternal childhood, with the bounty and vigilance of the stars, the whole world was his inheritance and he shared it with everyone.
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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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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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The secret of secrets is inside me again.
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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to you in waking dreams.
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We are all carousers and loose women here How unhappy we are together!
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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones unspoken phrases, silent words.
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It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.
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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.
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