The prelude was short.
I say I am going to die in your hands.
What Akhmatova will say?
I solemnly declare, my
date has arrived. I want to give, one
by one piece of my body to each vulture.
A voice zooms. What do
you do? You want to drink blood, or venom,
or hemlock given to Socrates?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem