last meeting

An Akhmatova poem.

The Song of the Last Meeting

Then helplessly my breast grew cold,
But my steps were light.
I pulled the glove for my left hand
Onto my right.

There seemed to be many steps,
But I knew–there were only three!
The whisper of autumn in the maples
Was pleading: “Die with me!

I am betrayed by my doleful,
Fickle, evil fate.”
I answered: “Darling, darling!
I too. I will die with you…”

This is the song of the last meeting.
I glanced at the dark house.
Candles were burning only in the bedroom,
With an indifferent-yellow flame.

September 29, 1911
Tsarskoye Selo

Published in: on July 25, 2008 at 1:37 pm  Leave a Comment  

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