I haven't locked the door,
Nor lit the candles,
You don't know, don't care,
That tired I haven't the strength
To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in
The sunset murk of pine-needles,
And to know all is lost,
That life is a cursed hell:
I've got drunk
On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you'd come back.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Anna Akhmatova certainly makes the weather and the physical environment an inseparable part of her poem. The bleakness outside is matched by her emotional state. Excellent, isn't it?