Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

I heard the voice. It promised solace.

"Come here," it seemed so softly call.

"Leave Russia, sinning, lost and graceless,

Leave your land, pray, for good and all.

I'll cleanse your hands from blood that stains you,

And from your heart draw back black shame,

The hurts of failure, wrongs that pain you

I'll veil with with yet another name."

With even calm deliberation

I raised my hands to stop my ears,

Lest that ignoble invitation

Defile a spirit lost in tears.

 

 

1917.By Anna Akhmatova. Translated by Gladys Evans.