Jul 24, 2020
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.
– Anna Akhmatova, Song of the Last Meeting (1911), translated by D. M. Thomas
