Anna Akhmatova
Evening in My Room

I say now such things
as one’s only able to say
soundlessly to one’s own soul,
things that perhaps one ought not even think.

Now—while a lost bee drones around
the vase of pallid chrysanthemums,
under the impression
he’s yet in a meadow—in this stuffy room
oppressively scented by dried flowers, herbs
and spices in sachets embalming
my linens in wardrobe and chest;

I recall, and relive, and rehearse such words,
to myself alone, in this narrow room
with its too-little window, this room that holds
the memory of love, remembers,
without penitence, times gone by—
despite the framed embroidered motto
hanging over the bed, asking God’s mercy
in fine round-lettered calligraphic French,

“No,” I say to my soul, “Don’t even touch this,
don’t seek out hints, or sad last traces
of that story so old it feels like a fable!”
The glossy cloaks of the brilliantly
tinted Sèvres figurines
grow dull with day’s waning.

A last sunbeam falls
from the little window, yellow and heavy, catches
the richly tinted bouquet of dahlias,
traps them in its amber.
As in a dream, I hear the sound
of someone’s violin,
and tentative notes on the harpsichord.

Translated by Seraphina Powell