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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.

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
Heart
Mine
World
Songs
Prophesied
Listen
Latest
Days
Begun
Wonder
Ring
Break
Poem
Song
Rings
Lost
Mines

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It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.
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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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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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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
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I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house
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There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.
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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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Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
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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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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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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.
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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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My shadow serves as the friend I crave
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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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This Cruel Age has deflected me.
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You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
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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 know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.
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