I WRUNG 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 followed 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