Anna Akhmatova
I noticed how a silver strand...

I noticed how a silver strand
was woven into my dark braid
like a delicate metal thread—
only you, female nightingale, could understand
this silent suffering for what must remain unsaid,
for unlike the male of your species,
you have no song.

Your delicate ear detects
the far-away sound. Hid in a broom bush,
perched on an inner twig, you cower down,
head tucked, feathers ruffled up,
watching, not even breathing
if you hear the cry of some unfamiliar bird.
Like me, you’re skilled at recognizing menace.

Just now, at this very moment, on cue,
you sat suddenly still,
not a chirp disturbed the encircling poplars.
You were fear-frozen, mute,
as if to echo my own dismay
at finding this malign silver sign.
Your quiet rang out, sang out,
mockingly amplified my own silence,
as if with a poisonous, inaudible,
vindictive, unspeakable joy.

Translated by Seraphina Powell