Though you are three times more beautiful than angels, Though you are the sister of the river willows, I will kill you with my singing, Without spilling your blood on the ground. Not touching you with my hand, Not giving… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
Wild honey smells of freedom The dust - of sunlight The mouth of a young girl, like a violet But gold - smells of… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention. — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
“That is why we love this city – Dark and stern, and full of water, And we love our separations, And brief moments when… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
Give me bitter years of sickness, Suffocation, insomnia, fever, Take my child and my lover, And my mysterious gift of song This I pray… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
We learned not to meet anymore, We don't raise our eyes to one another, But we ourselves won't guarantee What could happen to us… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
“ In Dream Black and enduring separation I share equally with you. Why weep? Gove me your hand, promise me you will come again.… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
“But don’t raise your eyes in defiance, Protect my life, my dear. They’re brighter than first violets, But deadly to me, I fear.” — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains… — Anna Akhmatova Copy Share Image
