'My imagination, obediently,'

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Conceives grey eyes.

　　In Tver, in my solitude,

　　It's you I bitterly remember.

　　Happily captive in another's arms,

　　On the left bank of the Neva,

　　My famed contemporary,

　　You have all that you desired;

　　You who told me: Enough,

　　Go now, quench your love!

　　And I weakly, waste away,

　　Though the blood beats more strongly.

　　If I die, who will write,

　　These poems to you,

　　Whose voice will ring

　　With my still unspoken words?