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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
Wing
Sold
Ahead
Wings
Black
Death
Looted
Flashed
Betrayed

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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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If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory.
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In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me . . . and asked me in a whisper . . . Can you describe this? And I said: I can.
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This cruel age has deflected me, like a river from this course. Strayed from its familiar shores, my changeling life has flowed into a sister channel. How many spectacles I've missed: the curtain rising without me, and falling too. How many friends I never had the chance to meet.
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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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This Cruel Age has deflected me.
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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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If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.
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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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Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
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Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
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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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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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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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We are all carousers and loose women here How unhappy we are together!
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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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Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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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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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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