Anna Akhmatova

They’re void – the celebrations
Of these polled non-dates,
The wordless conversations,
The soundless words’ sets.
The never crossing glances
Are flying courses, wrong,
And just the tears are freightless –
They can flow for long.
And Moscow’s wild-roses
Are of the same mixed stuff…
And later they’ll call all this
“The never-dying love.”


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October 9, 2004
Corrected May-June 2008