Anna Akhmatova
The high arching vault of the Polish Catholic church...

The high arching vault of the Polish Catholic church
is a truer, more vivid blue
than the actual sky;
forgive me, merry boy,
for being your cause of death.

Because of the roses you gathered for me
in the ornamental garden—
because of your stupid letters—
because of the way your confident, healthy face
grew pale and thin—how you couldn’t
look me in the eye—because of the way
you became a living cliché—

I thought, “This is all for show,
he’s pretending to be a grown man.” I thought,
“Boy that he is, how could he fall
for an old tired whore like me
as he would for some virgin girl?”

I was colder to you than the weather,
and winter was coming on.
Not cold enough.
You were already so far gone
that you stalked me implacably,
your grim gaze on me everywhere,
all the time.

It seemed you collected, treasured
each hint of my disinterest. I’m sorry!
Why did you vow so perverse a penance,
such an artful martyrdom?

Death met you halfway. Tell me,
what did you find in the end?
I never guessed that beneath your blue collar
you already wore the noose.

Forgive me, that once you were happy,
that you turned out to be
such a hurt little bird!
It was hard, coming here to your church for farewell,
it’s worse now, heading home.

Translated by Seraphina Powell