'It was not mystery or grief,'

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Nor the wise will of fate –

　　It was the impression of strife,

　　Our meetings always left behind.

　　From dawn I'd anticipate

　　The moment when you'd appear,

　　Feeling faint stabbing pains

　　All along my folded arms.

　　And with dry fingers I'd crumple

　　The table's chequered cloth…

　　I knew then, already,

　　How small this earth truly is.