So again we triumph!
Again we do not come!
Our speeches silent,
Our words, dumb.
Our eyes that have not met
Again, are lost;
And only tears forget
The grip of frost.
A wild-rose bush near Moscow
Knows something of
This pain that will be called
Immortal love.
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1956)
from Седьмая книга (The Seventh Book)
translation by D. M. Thomas
Rambling At The Bridge Head 