by Anna Akhmatova
Hands clasped, under the dark veil.
‘Today, why are you so pale?’
– Because I’ve made him drink his fill
Of sorrow’s bitter tale.
How could I forget? He staggered,
His mouth twisted with pain…
Iran down not touching the rail,
Iran all the way to the gate.
‘I was joking,’ I cried, breathlessly.
‘If you go away, I am dead.’
Smiling strangely, calmly,
‘Don’t stand in the wind,’ he said.