Anna Akhmatova
O, how often did I curse...

O, how often did I curse
Both the earth and the sky,
And the heavily waving arms
Of the moss-covered mill!
In the annex, straight and gray,
The deceased lies on the bench,
As it was three years ago.
The mice still nibble at books
The flame of the stearin candle
Still bends a bit to the left.
And the hateful jingling bells
From the Nizhniy Novgorod,
Sing and sing the simple song
Of my bitter merriment.
While brightly painted dahlias
All stand straight along the length
Of the silver trail covered
With wormwood and snails.
And so it was: imprisonment
Became my second home.
And I don’t dare to recall
The first one, even in prayer.

Translated by Andrey Kneller