Anna Akhmatova
I’ve learned the art of living simply, wisely...

I’ve learned the art of living simply, wisely,
how to look up at the sky and feel grateful to God,
to set out on aimless afternoon strolls
long enough before nightfall so that there’ll be time
to walk off and wear away all my needless worries.

Late summer. The branch stalks of the burdock,
with their spiky purple flowers—big thistly weeds—
have gotten tall. They rustle in the wind
passing through the ravine;
orange-red berry clusters
hang down amid the rowan tree’s leaves;
I write blissful poems, ripened,
sweetened by the season,
about this so brief, so beautiful life.

I get back to the house. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs its winning, unfeigned affection.
I can see, across the lake, the smokestack of the saw mill.
The furnace for the steam engine powering its blades
throws sparks and embers
that glow the smoke
so it looks, as day darkens,
like a turret with a plume of fire.

At long intervals I hear, dividing the silence,
the cry of a stork returning roofwards
to nest for the night.
I’m so deep in these reveries,
I don’t know I’d even hear it
if you knocked.

Translated by Seraphina Powell