…my hands…


I wrung my hands under my dark veil…
“why are you pale, what makes you reckless?”
– Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.

I´ll never forget. He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate…
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and follow him as far as the gate.

And shouted, choking: “I meant it all
in fun. Don´t leave me, or I´ll die of pain.”
He smiled at me – oh so calmly, terribly –
and said: “Why don´t you get out of the rain?”

(Anna Akhmatova, Selected Poems)


2 thoughts on “…my hands…

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