Anna Akhmatova
The Reader

The poet can’t be too sad
Or, worse still, too sly.
For general understanding,
The poet must be open wide.

The footlights in front of him,
Bare and bright, deathly;
The cold blaze of limelight
Branding his face.

But every reader is a secret,
A buried treasure, of sorts —
Even the last to come,
And remaining a lifelong mute.

There’s the one nature keeps from us
Whenever she feels like it;
There’s the one who weeps helplessly
At the prearranged hour.

And there (darkness,
shadows, chilly air) —
And there — the unknown eyes
That speak to me till dawn.

About some things they rebuke me,
About others they agree.
And so it goes, like a silent confession,
The flow of our warm exchange.

Life on earth is short,
Our given sphere constricted,
But the poet’s unknown friend
Is constant and eternal.

Translated by Ann Clark and Zhenya Zafrin