by Anna Akhmatova
To lose the freshness of speech, the simplicity of feeling,
Isn’t that, for us, like a painter losing the power of sight,
Or an actor, their voice and movement,
Or a lovely woman, her beauty?
But don’t try to keep to yourself
This gift the heavens have granted:
We’re condemned – you know it yourself –
To squander, not hoard, its wealth.
Go alone, and heal the blind,
To know, in the heavy hours of doubt,
The mockery of gloating followers,
The indifference of the crowd.