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Îmi plac poeziile Annei Akhmatova pentru că au rimă. Cel puțin cele traduse de Andrey Kneller. Și originalele, probabil. Celelalte traduceri nu îmi plac la fel de mult pentru că nu au rimă. Sunt un consumator de cultură foarte sofisticat și pretențios, îmi plac (și înțeleg) doar poeziile cu rimă 8-|

No letter came for me today:
Did he forget or go away thereafter,
The spring is like a trill of silver laughter
The boats are bobbing in the bay.
No letter came for me today…

He was with me not very long ago,
So much in love, so gentle and all mine,
But that was still the white of wintertime,
Now spring is here, with poison in its woe
He was with me not very long ago…

I hear: the fiddle bow is trembling and light,
It beats, it beats as if from deathly ache,
And I’m afraid now that my heart will break
And leave unfinished tender lines I write…

****

How I crave immortality, dying.
Clouds of dust come low from afar…
Let the naked red devils come flying,
With the cauldrons of foul-smelling tar.

Playing tricks, crawl up to me, lurking,
Threats from books, all tattered and bent,
Only leave me my memory working
Just my memory, whole to the end.

So that there, in tormenting succession,
Your face doesn’t seem to me strange,
I will pay hundredfold for possessions
Of smiles and dreams, in exchange.

Death will quench my thirst in a hurry
With a see-through, corrosive lye
And the people will come here to bury
My body and voice when I die.

****

Words’ ease and freshness – is it less
For us than for an artist – vision,
For actors – voice and hand precision,
For beauties – beauty and finesse?

The gift you have is not from earth,
Don’t try to save it for yourself:
We are condemned – we know this well –
To squander all and not preserve.

Go forth alone and cure the blind,
In times of doubt, you will see
Your students’ scorn and mockery
And the indifference of mankind.