Poetry must be human. If it is not human, it is not poetry. - Vicente Aleixandre

             *  *  *

The  cloud up in the wintry sky was furry,
A squirrel skin, pale grey, a trifle faded.
He said: "You know, I'm not the least bit sorry
That you will melt in March, my frail Snow Maiden."

My hands turned cold inside the muff I carried...
Confusion came  and fear, my heart ceased beating.
O how to get them back - that swift-gone, airy
Love and those weeks of it, so brief, so fleeting!

Hate? No. Revenge? What for? I'll do without it.
O to be dead at winter's end and buried!
On Twelfth Night, dazed, I asked the cards about him:
I was his love for most of January.


[English] [Russian TRANS | KOI8 | ALT | WIN | MAC | ISO5]
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Akhmatova A.A.
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