By Anna Akhmatova
To get properly sick, with a feverous burn,
And to meet everybody all over again…
In a sun-spotted garden next to the sea,
They would stroll over wide breezy alleys with me.
Even the dead ones agree to come by,
And those exiled within their own home,
Would you grab his small fingers and bring me the child?
For a while I’ve been missing him so.
With all of my darlings I’ll dine on blue grapes,
Followed by wine, icy cold,
And watch a gray waterfall streaming away,
Over a deep creamy pond.