Anna Akhmatova

Muse went away by the road,
The autumnal, narrow, steep,
And her swarthy feet were slopped,
With large drops of dew in her slip.

I begged her, with hope and fear,
To stay till the winter’s white lace,
She answered, “There is a grave here, 
How can you still breathe in such place?”

I wished to give her a she-pigeon,
The whitest in our doves’ nest,
Bur suddenly and without reason,
She fled after my slender guest.

I looked after Muse, and was silent,
I loved only her till my end,
And in skies grew a sunrise giant,
As the gate into her own land.  


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August, 2002