Anna Akhmatova
Part of a Conversation

I was alone and someone was there
in the shadow of the trees, I guessed a presence
in the rustling of the fallen leaves.
It called out, “What’s he done to you,
that lover of yours, what’s he done to you
in the name of love?

“Your darkened eyes look beady,
the lids seem heavy,
as if black eyeliner was too heavily applied
to herself by a woman
not young enough for the look.
He’s poisoned you with that love of his,
a toxic dose of melancholia,
a slow almost-suffocation of sighs.

“He’s hurt you so deeply and so many times
you’ve lost count. Your heart is deadened, numb
to the instant heat of a next needle sting.
You won’t recover happiness
by struggling like someone buried alive.”

I replied to that liar, “Sly demon,
you couldn’t even guess what decency is!
He’s gentle—and tender—” I protested,
“does everything I ask—adores me—
always will—”
I protested, methinks, too much.

Translated by Seraphina Powell