terça-feira, 5 de março de 2013

Anna Andreevna Akhmatova - m. 05/03/1966


I live like a cuckoo in the clock,
Not begrudging birds in the woods:
If they wind me up I sing.
You know my fate is such;
Only upon an enemy
Could I wish this thing.


Poema de 1911





Once we thought we were poor, we haven't anything,
But as soon as we began to lose one thing after another,
Then each day became
A Day of Remembrance –
We started to compose songs
About God's great munificence
And yes, about our former wealth.



Poema de 1915



Yes, I loved them, those nightly gatherings.
On the little table, the ice-cold glasses,
Above the odorous black coffee, thin steam,
The red fireplace's heavy, winter heat,
A literary joke's comestible pleasure and,
Helpless and terrible, a friend's first glance.


Poema de 1917
 

 

Anna Akhmatova
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