I hear the always-sad voice of the oriole

I hear the always-sad voice of the oriole
and I salute the passing of delectable summer.
With the hissing of a snake the scythe cuts down
the stalks, one pressed hard against another.

And the hitched-up skirts of the slender reapers
fly in the wind like holiday flags. Now if only
we had the cheerful ring of harness bells,
a lingering glance through dusty eyelashes.

I don't expect caresses or flattering love-talk,
I sense unavoidable darkness coming near,
but come and see the Paradise where together,
blissful and innocent, we once lived.


—Translated by Jane Kenyon 



Anna Akhmatova's "I hear the always-sad voice of the oriole" translated by Jane Kenyon, from Collected Poems. Copyright 2005 by the Estate of Jane Kenyon. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, www.graywolfpress.org.