October 3, 2004

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  So many stones have been thrown at me,
  
  
  That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
  
  
  And the pit has become a solid tower,
  
  
  Tall among tall towers.
  
  
  I thank the builders,
  
  
  May care and sadness pass them by.
  
  
  From here I'll see the sunrise earlier,
  
  
  Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
  
  
  And into the windows of my room
  
  
  The northern breezes often fly.
  
  
  And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat...
  
  
  As for my unfinished page,
  
  
  The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm
  
  
  And delicate, will finish it.
  
  
  
  Anna Akhmatova, 1914
  
  

  • 6:22 pm
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