Anna Akhmatova

Like with red seeds, my soul’s overfilled
With wishful thinking and, for all, a bleed.

Just one of them is most nested for 
Being forever a recall of her,  

Whose life, from Adam, once began to roll, 
Tho’, maybe, you didn’t call her Eve, at all –

For her you would agree your rib to miss   
And pains from her – to contemplate as bliss.

To build her palace you’d begun a child,
But could not end it through your lifetime’s flight...

And now in silence of the deep night’s fall, 
I’m looking for a stone for its wall.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, April l3-14, 2008
Corrected May-June 2008