Anna Akhmatova
When, with a firm but tired hand...

When, with a firm but tired hand,
In the dreariest of capitals,
On the page of white I penned
My rejection, unretractable,

And the damp wind from afar
Through the window, streamed inside,
It appeared, the sky was charred
With a smoky-crimson light.

I didn’t gaze at the Neva, pensive,
Or the granite illumined clear,
You, in flesh, — it seemed, I sensed it —
My unforgotten, would appear…

But, the sudden startling night
Cloaked the pre-autumnal town,
As if to help me in my flight,
The ashen shadows melted down.

I only took the cross that you
Gave me the day of betrayal, —
So the steppe would bloom anew
And the winds, like the sirens, wail.

There it is on the empty wall,
Keeping my ravings at bay,
No memories scare me at all
Now, — even the very last day. 

Translated by Andrey Kneller