by Anna Akhmatova

He said I have no rivals in his eyes,
I'm not a woman made of flesh and blood
I soothe him like the sun in wintry skies,
Like native tunes' abandon heard abroad
And when I'll die, he will not shed a tear
He won't scream out, half-crazed: "Stay, I was wrong!"
But suddenly he'll realize with fear
That bodies need a sun, and souls a song.
...But what of now?