by Anna Akhmatova
For Vasily Komarovsky
Such strange words
That quiet April day brought me.
You knew it was still alive in me,
That dreadful week of passion.
I heard no pealing of bells,
Floating in clear azure,
For seven days copper laughter chimed,
Silvery sorrow streamed.
And I, veiling my face,
As if for eternal parting,
Lay, awaiting there
The still-nameless torment.