Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)

On the Way

Although this is not my native land
Forever the memory is in me
Of the tenderly icy sea
And the fresh waters.

The sand on the bottom is whiter than chalk,
And the drunken air, like wine,
And the rosy body of the pine
Is naked in the twilight hour.

And the sun itself sets in waves of ether
In such a way that I cannot comprehend
Whether it is the end of the day, the end of the world,
Or the secret of secrets is within me again.

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