So many stones are thrown at me,
They no longer scare.
Fine, now, is the snare,
Among high towers a high tower.
I thank its builders: may
They never need a friend.
Here I can see the sun rise earlier
And see the glory of the day’s end.
And often into the window of my room
Fly the winds of a northern sea,
A dove eats wheat from my hands…
And the Muse’s sunburnt hand
Divinely light and calm
Finishes the unfinished page.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (Summer 1914, Slepnyovo)
– from Белая стая (White Flock, 1917) translation by D. M. Thomas