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)