Anna Ahkmatova, 1917 / Anno Domini MCMXXI / III. The Voice of Memory
This August is indeed like a yellow flame Death writhes among brown-burnt withering leaves The grass is as sere as Macbeth’s acrid soul And garden hoses drip in futility
The sun-bleached visage of Ozymandias Might frown upon this blighted desert wrack For not unlike the Ancient Mariner’s ghostly crew The usages of summer drop and decay
But look!
But look above the last barren clouds in the west - A tiny sliver of the promising moon