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« A Month of Sundays | Main | La doppia ora »

Akhmatova, "Бесшумно ходили по дому"

A work ("So still was each step through the home") by this poet. You can read the original here.

So still was each step through the home,
So pale were the faces in hue;
Despondent, they led me alone
To someone they claimed I once knew.

His first words: “Thank God you are here!”
More pensive, he stopped, then he said:
“So long now has my time drawn near,
For you but I waited instead.

“To frenzy will you then alarm me?
All your words a safe place shall store.
So say now, will you not forgive me?”
And I said: “It’s not like before.”

Blue shades by the walls seemed to hover,
From floorboard to ceiling, each inch.
And on the soft silken bed cover
A hand lay, a dried fruit or finch.

His profile, flung back and so preying,   
Turned suddenly heavy and coarse,
With no hint of what he was saying
From dark lips, so chapped in remorse.

And then came one spasm, his last,
Those blue eyes of his understood:
“You’re smart to have ceded the past,
Not always were you quite this good.”

His face then grew younger in love;
Anew I caught sight of those years.
And I said, “O God, Lord above
Redeem him, your slave, from his fears.”

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