The fisherman

Bare arms, and eyes intent,

Ice-blue, they pull you in,

And like a tan, the pungent scent

Of tar befits your skin.

Your collar’s opened wide,

Your jacket shimmers blue.

The fisherwomen sigh

And blush on seeing you.

Even the girl who sells

Anchovies, mouth agape,

Strays stupefied as well,

Each evening on the cape.

Her frail arms - collapsed,

Her gaze is deep and spent,

She’s tickled by the crabs

That crawl out on the sand.

She doesn’t chase away

These crabs like she did prior

And blood beats more each day

She’s wounded by desire.
Anna Akhmatova
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Grey-eyed king

Inconsolable anguish, I hail your sting!

Yesterday died the grey-eyed king.

The autumn evening was stifling and red,

My husband returned and casually said:

“Back from the hunt, with his body they walked,

They found him lying beside the old oak.

I pity the queen. So young! Passed away!...

In the span of a night, her hair became grey.”

He found his pipe and wandered outside,

And went off to work, like he did every night.

My daughter’s asleep. I’ll bid her to rise,

Only to gaze at her grey-colored eyes.

Outside the window, the poplars unnerved,

Whisper: “Your king is no more on this earth…”
Anna Akhmatova
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Evening room

These words I speak now come to me but once

To blossom in my soul and quickly fade.

A bee is buzzing, settling on white mums,

And there’s a musty smell of old sachet.

The room with narrow windows with precision

Recalls old times, preserves the love I knew.

Over the bed, there’s a French inscription,

That reads: “Seigneur, ayez pitie de nous”

My soul, I beg, don’t touch and don’t evoke

The hints of sorrow of some bygone tale…

I’ve noticed how the lustrous gleaming cloaks

Of Sevres statuettes grow dim and pale.

The final ray, so golden and so heavy,

Dies down in the dahlia’s bouquet,

As in a dream, I can make out already

A viol and a harpsichord duet.
Anna Akhmatova
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Masquerade in the park

The moon illuminates the eaves,

And skims the crests of waves at night…

The chilly hands of the marquise

Are fragrant, delicate and light.

“O Prince! – she curtsies and exhales, -

“In quadrille, you’re the vis-à-vis,” -

The mask conceals her turning pale

From burning love and ecstasy.

The entryway’s obscured by sloping

Poplar trees and hops that fell.

“Baghdad and Constantinople,

I will win for you, ma belle.”

“You are smiling so rarely,

That I’m frightened in advance!”

The cold pavilion is shady.

“Well then! Maybe, let us dance?”

They walk off and lanterns flicker

On the elm and maple trunks.

Clad in emerald, ladies bicker,

Betting gaily with the monks.

With azaleas, Pierrot,

Smirks and starts a friendly chat:

“Prince! Are you the one who broke

The feather on marquise’s hat?”
Anna Akhmatova
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It’s late! I’m tired, I’m yawning

“It’s late! I’m tired, I’m yawning…”

“Mignon, lie down and rest,

For my slender mistress, I’m curling

This ginger wig by request.

Green ribbons with hang all around,

With a small pearl clasp on the side;

Her note read: ‘My mysterious Count,

Let us meet by the maple tonight!’

Under the lace of the mask,

She’ll hide her sly laughter away.

Not long ago, she even asked

To perfume her garters today.”

A ray of the morning fell, grazing

The top of her long black gown…

“He opened his arms to embrace me

By the maple, my mysterious Count.”
Anna Akhmatova
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She longs for the forgotten moment

She longs for the forgotten moment

Of the springtime dream so sweet,

Like Perrette pines for the golden

Pitcher shattered at her feet…

She’s collected all the pieces,

But could not assemble them…

“If you only knew, Alisa,

Just how bored of life I am!

I won’t eat or drink, instead

I yawn through dinner in a drowse,

You’ll believe me, I forget

To pencil in neglected brows.

Oh Alisa! It’s such torture,

Bring him back, just him alone;

If you want to, take my fortune,

Take my gowns and my home.

In my dream, he wore a crown,

I am dreading nights like this!”

Alisa’s locket holds a brown

Lock of hair – guess, whose it is?!
Anna Akhmatova
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To the muse

Muse-sister gazed at me pensively,

Her clear bright eyes didn’t blink,

And snatched the gold ring from me,

The very first gift of spring.

Muse! you see, how happy they feel–

Young ladies, widows, and wives…

I would much rather die on the wheel

Than to be in these fetters for life.

I know: while guessing, even I will tear

Those delicate daisy petals.

All on this earth are destined to bear

The torments of love unsettled.

Until sunrise, my candle remains aglow

And there isn’t a person I miss,

But I don’t, don’t, don’t want to know

How another woman is kissed.

Tomorrow, laughing, the mirrors will say:

“Your gaze isn’t clear or bright…”

And I’ll reply quietly: “She took away

A gift from God that night.”
Anna Akhmatova
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