Anna Akhmatova
There’s none equal to me — he used to cite...

There’s none equal to me — he used to cite.
For him, I’m not a woman of the real,
But winter sun’s always relieving light,
And a wild song of his land, so dear.
When I am dead, he would not feel a grief,
The crazy, would not cry, “Return, my sole!”
But understand: a body cannot live
Without a sun, without a song — a soul…
        And what is now?

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver