THREE POEMS BY AKHMATOVA
Disaster has fallen on everyone, everywhere;
The presence of death is like night.
Devouring pain has swallowed everything—
Then why do we feel such delight?
Days are heavy with cherry-tree fragrance
Drifting from the orchards nearby;
Nights burn with unknown constellations
In the transparent heavens of July.
And something miraculous materializes
Among the ruins, the rubble, the grime—
Something none of us, none of us recognizes,
But has wanted for a long, long time.
There were three things in life he loved:
Music at Vespers, white peacocks,
And antique maps of America.
He hated children crying
And raspberry jam for tea.
He hated women in hysterics—
And he married me.
I drink to the wreck of our life together,
And the pain of living alone.
I drink to the loneliness we shared—
My dear, I drink to you.
I drink to the trick of a mouth that betrayed me,
To the eyes and the look that lied.
I drink to the terrible world we inhabit
And to God, who never replied.
Comments
Post a Comment