Saturday, April 21, 2012

Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)

In my room lives a beautiful
Slow black snake;
It is like me, just as lazy,
Just as cold.

In the evening I compose marvelous tales
On the rug by the fire's red glow,
And with emerald eyes
It gazes at me indifferently.

At night the dead, mute icons hear
Resisting moans...
It's true, I would desire another
Were it not for the serpent eyes.

But in the morning, submissive once more, I
Melt, like a slender candle...
And then from my bare shoulder
A black ribbon slides.

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