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All has been looted, betrayed, sold black death's wing flashed ahead.

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
Ahead
Wings
Black
Death
Looted
Flashed
Betrayed
Wing
Sold

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I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
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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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You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
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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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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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If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.
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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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This Cruel Age has deflected me.
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It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.
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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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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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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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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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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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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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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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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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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
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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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Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.
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