It's when the crescent lies — a Charju melon slice —
Atop the window ledge, and stuffiness around,
The entry door locked, the whole house bound
To silence by the purple wisteria branches' splice,
And when ice-cold water rests in a clay cup,
The towel light as snow, the wax candle's flare
Spreads sparks and calls the moths from everywhere,
As in my childhood; silence rumbles, ignoring me,
Then something from the Rembrandt corners' black
Will concentrate, and stumble, and swiftly humble back,
Unable to frighten, let alone to intermit...
This is where loneliness has trapped me in its cages.
The landlady's black cat keeps wide his eyes of ages,
My twin in mirrors' depth would not give me a ride.
I will but sweetly sleep. I say good night to night.
Original: www.akhmatova.org/verses/sedm_kn/sedm_kn.htm#45