Misfortune’s black whisper
Nestles warmly to my ear—
And murmurs, as if this were
Its business for the night:
“You wanted comfort,
Do you know where it is—your comfort?”
1936
To Poetry
You led me where there were no roads,
Through darkness like a falling star.
You were bitterness and falsehood,
But comfort—never.
c. 1941–44
Tashkent
— Anna Akhmatova