Akhmatova
janine canan
Akhmatova, the oriole is always grieving --
is she happy or sad?
Silver willow sliced to a stump.
She suddenly came out of that trance so common to us all,
and whispered in my ear (everybody spoke in whispers there):
“Can you describe this?”
Lyre that became a rattle.
Incinerating your poems,
you bellowed a shroud over Stalingrad.
And I said, “Yes, I can.”
Then something like the shadow of a smile
crossed what had once been her face.
Today in Saint Petersburg the snow drips
off your bronze eyelids.
And the stars above -- are they happy or sad?
