Because somewhere there's simplicity and light,
Transparent, warm and joyous…
There a neighbour talks with a girl at twilight,
Over the fence, and only the bees hear,
The most tender of murmurings.
While we live with ceremony, difficulty,
Honouring the rites of our bitter meetings,
Where a sudden reckless gust
Breaks off the sentence begun –
But we'd not exchange for anything
This granite city of fame and misfortune,
The wide rivers of shining ice,
The sunless, gloomy gardens,
The barely audible voice of the Muse.
Return to the Anna Akhmatova library , or . . . Read the next poem; Bezhetsk