Oh, I've not locked the doors,
I've not lit the candles,
you know I'm too tired
to think of sleep
See, how the fields die down,
in the sunset gloom of firs,
and I'm drunk on the sound
of your voice echoing here.
It's fine, that all's black,
that life's--a cursed hell.
O, that you'd come back-
I was so sure, as well.
I speak those words today that come
only once, born in the spirit.
Bees hum on white chrysanthenum:
there's the must of old sachet.
And the room, with twin windows,
preserves love, remembers the past.
Over the bed a French script flows:
it reads: 'Lord, have mercy on us.'
Those saddened marks of so ancient a tale,
you musn't touch, my heart, or seek too...
I see bright Sevres statuettes grow pale:
even as their lustre grows duller too.
A last ray, yellow, heavy,
sets on dahlias' bright bouquet,
and I can hear viols playing,
a clavichord's rare display.
Anna Akhmatova link . The second image is a painting of her in 1922 by the artist Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin.