Song of the Last Meeting



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 whispered 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                    

(Evening, Tsarskoye Selo, 1911)