by Anna Akhmatova
Instead of wisdom — experience, a flat,
Unsatisfying drink.
And there was youth — like the Sunday prayer . . .
Could I ever forget it?
So many deserted roads walked
With him who was not dear to me,
So many bows I made in church
For him, who loved me . . .
I’ve become the most forgetful of all the forgetful,
Quietly the years sail by.
Those unkissed lips, unsmiling eyes
Will never return to me.
