Sunbeam by Anna Akhmatova

I pray to the sunbeam from the window -
It is pale, thin, straight.
Since morning I have been silent,
And my heart - is split.
The copper on my washstand
Has turned green,
But the sunbeam plays on it
So charmingly.
How innocent it is, and simple,
In the evening calm,
But to me in this deserted temple
It's like a golden celebration,
And a consolation.

by Anna Akhmatova

Other poems by 'Anna Akhmatova'

I Don't Know If You're Alive Or Dead

I Wrung My Hands

March Elegy

Memory Of Sun

Requiem

Solitude

The Sentence

Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Under Her Dark Veil

You Thought I Was That Type

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