by Anna Akhmatova (trans. from Russian by Judith Hemschemeyer)
And the stone word fell
On my still-living breast.
Never mind, I was ready.
I will manage somehow.
Today I have so much to do:
I must kill memory once and for all,
I must turn my soul to stone,
I must learn to live again---
Unless . . . Summer's ardent rustling
Is like a festival outside my window.
For a long time I've forseen this
Brilliant day, deserted house.
This, THIS is why I love poetry--that question launches a debate.