There were several poems by Anna Akhmatova that I considered sharing, but this one rang a little louder than the others. Perhaps because it was one that I learned to to recite in Russian, many years ago. Though I would struggle mightily to sound out the Cyrillic words now, some of the lines from this poem still stick to my lungs, and I am able to mutter them aloud in Russian. Even when translated into English, Akhmatova’s poetry pierces right through to the center of the body.
The mysterious spring still lay under a spell,
the transparent wind stalked over the mountains,
and the dep lake kept on being blue,--
a temple of the Baptist not made by hands.
You were frightened by our first meeting,
but I already prayed for the second, and now
the evening is hot, the way it was then . . .
How close the sun has come to the mountain.
You are not with me, but this is no separation:
to me each instant is--triumphant news.
I know there is such anguish in you
that you cannot say a single word.
Spring 1917