'My imagination, obediently,'


My imagination, obediently,
Conceives grey eyes.
In Tver, in my solitude,
It's you I bitterly remember.

Happily captive in another's arms,
On the left bank of the Neva,
My famed contemporary,
You have all that you desired;

You who told me: Enough,
Go now, quench your love!
And I weakly, waste away,
Though the blood beats more strongly.

If I die, who will write,
These poems to you,
Whose voice will ring
With my still unspoken words?


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Return to the Anna Akhmatova Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; 'My voice is weak, but not my will'

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