…from the quills of the dead white poets
Anna Akhmatova (1889 – 1966)
But nothing changed for ages here… In the same way the divine lyre Pours bliss from the eternal crests. Same are the waters and stars’ throngs, And endless bleakness of skies’ domes, And flying seeds in airy flows, And mothers sing the same sweet songs. Forget all troublesome and cruel – It’s safe – my dear Asian home… I’ll come once more. Let fences blossom And pools be clear ones and full.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, 2002