Not sure of the translator
Nothingness
by Anna Akhmatova
Calm yourself, my child, it is gone.
What you see are the remains: the woodland, the smoke, the retreating flames.
Somewhere, perhaps, in a far-away country
the sky is bluer and roses cling to a stone wall,
perhaps there are palm trees and a milder wind—
here there is nothing.
Here is nothing but snow on the branches of the spruce.
Here is nothing to kiss with warm lips:
what of it, all lips cool with passing time.
And you claim, my child, that your heart is brave
and that living without hope is worse than death.
What do you expect of death? Nausea seeps from his garb,
and self-slaughter is the most loathsome end of all.
We should love these long sick hours of life,
these narrow years of yearning,
like the brief blooming of a desert landscape.
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