We aged a hundred years, and this
Happened in a single hour:
The short summer had already died,
The body of the ploughed plains smoked.
Suddenly the quiet road burst into color,
A lament flew up, ringing, silver…
Cornering my face, I implored God
Before the battle to strike me dead.
Like a burden henceforth unnecessary,
The shadows of passion and songs vanished from my memory.
The Most High ordered it — emptied —
To become a grim book of calamity.
- From Anna Akhmatova's third collection, White Flock(1917)
Happened in a single hour:
The short summer had already died,
The body of the ploughed plains smoked.
Suddenly the quiet road burst into color,
A lament flew up, ringing, silver…
Cornering my face, I implored God
Before the battle to strike me dead.
Like a burden henceforth unnecessary,
The shadows of passion and songs vanished from my memory.
The Most High ordered it — emptied —
To become a grim book of calamity.
- From Anna Akhmatova's third collection, White Flock(1917)
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