Anna Akhmatova

I was so praying: “Quench, Oh Lord,
My deepened thirst of the song-singing!”
But for the worldly in the world
There’s no a chance of any freeing.

Like altar’s smoke that couldn’t flee
Up to the famous throne Father’s – 
But only floats by the feet,
Kissing worshipfully the grasses, – 

Such I kiss grounds yours, Oh God!
Will ever touch the Heavens’ fire
The lashes of my eyes, strong-closed,
And this strange dumbness, to admire?


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 2002