Anna Akhmatova
- Creativity, by John Woodsworth
(I sometimes feel a kind of weary languor...) - Writing Poetry , by Olga Dumer
(It happens so: there comes a sense of languor...)
«Under caresses of an ivy / Plaid I recalled yesterday's dream. / Whose victory? Who's been defeated? / What has it been? Rethinking everything once more, / Torturing myself once again. / In this, for which no word I know, / Had love ever been? Who was the hunter? Who — the hunted? ...»
«Today was melting, and today / Before the window I did stand. / A sober look, a freer chest, / I'm satisfied just once again. I don't know why. Perhaps the soul / Has simply grown tired of it all, / And somehow the rebellious pencil / I do not wish to touch at all. Distant to good and ...»
«You were too lazy to get dressed, / Too lazy to get up for me. / And every following day for you / Would have been happy with my glee. To come so late on a cold night / Embarrassed you especially. / And every following hour for you / Would have been young with this my glee. I was the y...»
«Today, around eight, dashing through / Big Lubanka straight ahead, / Like bullet, like snowball, / Somewhere rushed the sled. Already the laughter rang... / I froze as I peered: / Red down of the hair / And somebody tall was near! We were with another, and opened / Another sled route...»