'As a silver, delicate strand'

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Is woven in my dark tresses –

　　Only you, silent nightingale,

　　Can understand this torment.

　　Your sensitive ear hears distance,

　　In the willow's thin branches,

　　Ruffled, you gaze – without breathing –

　　If a strange song sounds.

　　But a moment ago, a moment,

　　The poplars suddenly stilled,

　　And your ineffable joy,

　　Rang out, your poisonous song.