Oh, it had been a chilly day,

In Petrov’s awe-inspiring town.

With crimson fire, the sun went down

And shadows spread in slow delay.

You touched my chest with scarce a hand,

As poets give the lyre a tease,

To hear submissively the pleas

Of lovers’ passionate demand.

You do not need to see me stare

Unchanging and with prophecy.

Catch what’s behind my poetry,

My proud mouth’s high-and-mighty prayer.

— Anna Akhmatova (1913)

translated by Jennifer Reeser