by Anna Akhmatova
Why pretend to be
Now breeze, now stone, now a bird?
Why smile at me,
In sudden lightning from summer’s sky?
Don’t torture me further, and don’t touch me!
Leave me to my prophetic dreams…
A drunken flame reels
Over the dry grey marshes.
And the Muse in a ragged shawl,
Sings a long despondent song,
With a harsh youthful yearning,
With her miraculous strength.