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They soar, they are somewhere mid-flight,
The words of love and liberation,
And I’m succumbing to stage-fright,
My lips – ice cold in trepidation.
But soon, where birches, thin and humble,
Caress the windows with their leaves, -
The voice of the unseen will rumble,
And roses will be tied in wreaths.
And then, like hot red wine, a light
So generous it’s hard to bear…
Already, fragrant winds ignite
And cause my consciousness to flare.
1916
By Anna Akhmatova
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"Miserableness is like a small germ I’ve had inside me as long as I can remember. And sometimes it starts wriggling."
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