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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
Sold
Ahead
Wings
Black
Death
Looted
Flashed
Betrayed
Wing

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Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
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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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There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.
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I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise.
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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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The secret of secrets is inside me again.
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Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Nobody dared.
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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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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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We are all carousers and loose women here How unhappy we are together!
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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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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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Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
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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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I go forth to seek To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak.
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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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The stars of death stood over us. And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed under the crunch of bloodstained boots, under the wheels of Black Marias.
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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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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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