Anna Akhmatova
All stayed the same, just as it was...

All stayed the same, just as it was,
Here it is futile to be dreaming,
This road’s impassable, I close
My shutters early in the evening.

One window peers out to the woods,
My quiet home is grim and shoddy.
Someone was cut here from a noose,
And afterward they cursed his body.

In secret pleasure or despair —
Death was his triumph — his salvation.
Upon his tattered, red plush chair,
His shadow flashes on occasion.

The cuckoo’s pleased to see the night,
Their dialogue grows clear and loud.
Through cracks, I see horse thieves outside
Have lit a fire by the mound.

I sense foul weather in the air,
As smoke, diffusing, starts to sink.
I’m not afraid. For luck, I wear
A long and dark-blue silken string.

Translated by Andrey Kneller