My legs are useless at the present,
May they become a fish’s tail!
I’m swimming, and the chill is pleasant,
The distant bridge is glowing pale.
I’ll give my passive soul away,
Let it be turned to smoke anew,
And light, above the gloomy quay,
It’ll change into a tender-blue.
Just look, how deeply I’ve retreated,
I’m diving — seaweed everywhere,
Nobody’s words will be repeated,
Nobody’s yearning will ensnare.
My distant, could it be, somehow,
Grief-stricken, you’ve become unsteady?
What do I hear? For three weeks now,
You only whisper: “why, poor lady!?”
Anna Akhmatova
March 18-19, 1911. Tsarskoe Selo
🧜♀️
#poetry #silverage #SilverAgeofRussianPoetry
Photo by my friend
@elena_baudouin 🤍