Anna Akhmatova
The Twenty-First. Night. Monday.
The outline of the capital in gloom.
It was just someone with nothing to do
who invented the story of love.
And either from laziness or from boredom
Everyone believed, and that’s how they live:
Waiting for rendezvous, fearing separation
And singing songs of love.
But the secret is revealed to some,
And silence settles upon them...
I stumbled upon this by chance
And from then on have been in pain.
January, 1917, Petersburg.
[English translation from the Russian, skij's 13, 2005]
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