Anna Akhmatova

(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966 / Odessa)

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Everything


Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?

By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.

And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no-one, no-one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.

Submitted: Tuesday, January 21, 2003

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Read poems about / on: july, children, sky, death, light, night, child

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