Anna Akhmatova
There’s a well-worn rug on the floor, beneath the icon...

There’s a well-worn rug on the floor, beneath the icon;
the room is cool and dim;
ivy curls around the wide open window,
dense, dark-green.

The too-sweet scent of roses flows in;
the oil-lamp before the icon crackles,
glimmering, nearly spent;
there are gaily painted chests for linen,
the loving work of a craftsman’s hand.

By the window stands a round wooden frame
on which you were weaving white lace;
your delicate features now wear a severe,
correct expression. You primly hold
a handkerchief over your hand,
as though someone might read upon it
the kisses just imprinted there.

Your heart was just starting to pound with excitement;
now it thuds in your chest with a different distress.
Your braids are disarrayed, and you’re aware
his kisses have left the the scent of his tobacco
lurking there too.

Translated by Seraphina Powell