Anna Akhmatova
- I won’t beg for your love..., by A. S. Kline
- It’s not your love I seek tonight..., by Andrey Kneller
- Your love is not what I request..., by Olga Dumer
Anna Achmatova (italiano)
- Non è il tuo amore che domando..., C. Riccio
«I left the native home, / Left my blue Russia. / The birch wood in three stars over the pond / Warms my old mother's sadness. The moon like a golden frog / Has sprawled on the calm water. / Like the bloom of the apple tree, / Gray hair has appeared in my father's beard. I will not soon...»
«The rain is sweeping / Willow litter about the meadows. / Wind, replete with fagots of leaves, — / I am a hooligan, like you. I like it when the blue thickets, / As oxen with a heavy trudge, / Muddy their trunks, on their knees. / Their bellies rattling with foliage. Here it is, my o...»
«I am the last poet of the village, / The plank bridge is modest in its songs. / I am standing for the farewell mass / Of the birch trees incensing with their foliage. The candle of the waxen flesh / Will burn away with a golden flame, / And the moon's wooden clock / Will wheeze my twelf...»
«Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet! / You will know because I am Nordic; / I can tell you a meadow, most scenic, / Moonlit rye waves one cannot forget. / Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet, You will know because I am Nordic; / So bright shines the moon out there / That it may outglow any glare / ...»