Never to share the same glass
of water or sweet wines.
Never to kiss as day first shines
or watch the evenings pass.
You breathe the sun in, I the moon.
Our lives from our love are hewn.
My faithful friend is at my side.
Yours, too, is eager to please.
What fright your grey eyes hide,
you, the author of my disease.
We space out our trysts.
We know what deep love risks.
In my poems, yours the speech;
through yours, my lungs respire.
Somewhere there burns a pyre
forgetfulness and fear don’t reach.
If only I could make you think
how I love your lips, parched, pink.
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After Anna Akhmatova, Не будем пить из одного стакана