Anna Akhmatova

                  1


The lot by the graves was a dusty hot land;
The river behind -- blue and cool.   
You told me, "Well, go to a convent,
Or go marry a fool..." 
Princes always say that, being placid or fierce,
But I cherish this speech, short and poor --
Let it flow and shine through a thousand years,
Like from shoulders do mantles of fur.  

                2

And, as if  in wrong occasion,
I said, "Thou," else...
And an easy smile of pleasure
Lit up dear face.

From such lapses, told or mental,
Every cheek would blaze.
I love you as forty gentle
Sisters love and bless. 


© Copyright, 1996
Translated by Tanya Karshtedt, June 1996,
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, July 1996.