For Anna Akhmatova
The guest was uninvited but arrived anyway
In this universe of moulding, he is the clay.
The freezing blizzard of my heart departs
As I look out of my window into this universe of things
And, for a micro-second, my wounded heart sings
With love and with the lack of love,
With all we seek to find
With memories buried in
This golgotha mind of mine.
I am no different, though,
I shield a breaking heart,
There's a visitor at my door
I know it is not you, for sure
We are separated, by time and place,
And in my mind I fix your face, so tenderly declared
That maybe we can reconcile, perchance a life shared?
We both know the power of thst old rogue romance.
In a time of war, you lift my trembling hand,
As we lightly touch the flowers,
Later, stroll hand-in-hand,
Like walking on sinking sand.
Oh! Tell me how to kiss thee,
On this borderline of death,
O! let us share a ring of sheer forgetfulness.
A bitter glow li9t his face, on this our final night,
Lucid and tenebrous, we stared deep into fright
Until the fading light became a perverted hieroglyph
No ode to joy, no reconciliation, no devotion to the nation.
There is nothing that we need
Except, this dropping of a seed
Into the lap of a poet of future days and nights
Who sits there out of doors and out of sight.
In the secret garden of remembrance,
Where past, present and future meet,
This devotee sits still at the guru's feet.
In deepest frost and crimson sun
Russian culture has, again, begun
Tousled and forlorn,
The siege of Stalingrad was reborn.
This poet died at Stalingrad,
Shot dead atcrack of dawn
And as she died, she thought of her lover's
Bright blue eyes, she'd have killed more Nazis soon,
And escaped from all disguise,
Into these airy, spacious rooms,
Down by the Neva's side,
Where she walks with her ghostly bridegroom by her side.