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I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house

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
Bright
House
Long
Premonition
Deserted

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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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Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground whisk the lamps away.
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My shadow serves as the friend I crave
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I myself, from the very beginning, Seemed to myself like someone's dream or delirium Or a reflection in someone else's mirror, Without flesh, without meaning, without a name. Already I knew the list of crimes That I was destined to commit.
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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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The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones unspoken phrases, silent words.
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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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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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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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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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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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It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.
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Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.
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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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I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
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But Fear and the Muse in turn guard the place Where the banished poet has gone And the night that comes with quickened pace Is ignorant of dawn.
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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.
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