Poetry

Anna Akhmatova I’m not one of those who left their land

I’m not one of those who left their land
To the mercy of the enemy.
I was deaf to their gross flattery.
I won’t grant them my songs.

But to me the exile’s always wretched,
Like a convict, or a patient.
Wanderer your road is dark,
And the bread of strangers tastes bitter.

But in the blinding smoke, the flames,
Destroying the remains of youth,
We have refused to evade
A single blow against ourselves.

And we know that in the final reckoning,
Each hour will stand justifiedโ€ฆ
No people on earth shed fewer tears,
Are simpler, or more filled with pride.

HydraGT

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