Anna Akhmatova

There’re no paths to where the former gone is.
I don’t crave for the passed by long ago.
And what is there? The lit with blood floor stones,
The immur’d and forgotten door,
Or echo which still doesn’t have any patience 
To be quite mute, though I’ve prayed much for that…
This helpless echo fell in the same station,
In which is one in my heart set. 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August 14, 2004
Corrected May-June 2008