by Anna Akhmatova
Oh, I’ve not locked the door,
I’ve not lit the candles,
You know I’m too tired
To think of sleep.
See, how the fields die down,
In the sunset gloom of firs,
And I’m drunk on the sound
Of your voice, echoing here.
It’s fine, that all’s black,
That life’s – a cursed hell.
O, that you’d come back –
I was so certain, as well.