Tuesday, July 3, 2012


my translation, based on the poem of 1913 yr. by Russian poet Anna Akhmatova 

The real tenderness
can't be confused
with anything,
and it's quiet.

You're needlessly
coddle gently
my shoulders
and chest
in the fur.

And in vain you say
humble words
about first love.
How well I know
these persistent
not being fed
looks of yours!

1 comment:

  1. Little gentle flower/ that is how I know of you/ divine that you carry deep thoughts/ with heady fragrance of yours.