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Out of your memory, I will remove this day,
So that your helpless gaze can question in a drowse:
Where I did see the Persian lilac sway,
The little swallows, and the wooden house?
Hearing my name, you’re going to recall
Unnamed desires’ anguish in a snap,
And in despondent cities, you will stall,
Seeking the street, which isn’t on the map.
Chance letters left behind on a shelf,
A voice behind the door, so faint and brief,
Will make you think: At last, she’s come, herself,
In order to dispel my disbelief.
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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