He was jealous, fearful and tender,
He loved me like God's only light,
And that she not sing of the past times
He killed my bird colored white.
He said, in the lighthouse at sundown:
"Love me, laugh and write poetry!"
And I buried the joyous songbird
Behind a round well near a tree.
I promised that I would not mourn her.
But my heart turned to stone spite my choice,
And it seems to me that everywhere
And always I'll hear her sweet voice.
By Anna Akhmatova
Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat
https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat
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