Anna Akhmatova The Guest

All’s as it was: the snowstorm’s
Fine flakes wet the window pane,
And I myself am not new-born,
But a man came to me today.

I asked: ‘What do you wish?’
He said: ‘To be with you in hell’.
Ilaughed: ‘Ah, sadly,
No: perhaps you wish me ill.’

But, his dry hand touched
A petal with a light caress:
‘Tell me, how they kiss you,
Tell me, how you kiss.’

And his eyes, dully gazing,
Never lifted from my ring.
Not a single muscle shifting
Beneath that evil-glistening.

O, I understand: to know, passionately
And intensely, is his delight,
That there’s nothing that he needs,
And nothing I can deny.