The pillow’s just as hot
when I turn it over.
And now a second candle
is guttering, and crows
are cawing louder than ever.
Not a wink… And it’s too late
even to think of sleep.
White, blindingly white –
a blind on a white window.
Good morning!
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova)
(1909)
from Вечер (Evening, 1912)
translation by Robert Chandler
An alternate version of the same poem as D. M. Thomas’ translation The Pillow Hot…
I walked without dragging my feet
but felt heavy at heart and frightened;
and I pulled onto my left hand
the glove that belonged to the right.
There seemed to be countless steps,
though I knew there were only three,
and an autumn voice from maples
whispered, ‘Die with me!
I have been undone by a fate
that is cheerless, flighty and cruel.’
I repied, ‘So have I, my dearest –
let me die one death with you…’
The song of a last encounter:
I glanced up at a dark wall:
from the bedroom indifferent candles
glowed yellow… And that was all.
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova)
(1911, Tsarkoye Selo)
from Вечер (Evening, 1912)
translation by Robert Chandler
This is an alternative version of same poem translated as Song of the Last Meeting by D. M. Thomas.
I came here in idleness.
It’s all the same where to be bored!
A small mill on a low hilltop.
The years can be silent here.
Softly the bee swims
Over dry convolvulus.
At the pond I call the mermaid
But the mermaid is dead.
The wide pond has grown shallow
And clogged with a rusty slime.
Over the trembling aspen
A light moon shines.
I notice everything freshly.
The poplars smell of wetness.
I am silent. Without words
I am ready to become you again, earth.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1911, Tsarskoye Selo)
– from Вечер (Evening, 1912), translation by D. M. Thomas
I haven’t locked the door,
Nor lit the candles,
You don’t know don’t care,
That tired I haven’t the strength
To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in
The sunset murk of pine-needles,
And to know all is lost,
That life is a cursed hell:
I’ve got drunk
On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you’d come back.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1911, Tsarskoye Selo)
– from Вечер (Evening, 1912), translation by D. M. Thomas
My breast grew cold and numb,
But my feet were light.
On to my right hand I fumbled
The glove to my left hand.
It seemed that there were many steps
-I knew there were only three.
An autumn whisper between the maples
Kept urging: ‘Die with me.
Change has made me weary,
Fate has cheated me of everything.’
I answered: ‘My dear, my dear!
I’ll die with you. I too am suffering.’
It was a song of the last meeting.
Only bedroom-candles burnt
When I looked into the dark house,
And they were yellow and indifferent.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1911, Tsarskoye Selo)
– from Вечер (Evening, 1912), translation by D. M. Thomas
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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