"To Death – An Excerpt From “Requiem” by Anna Akhmatova, contributed by Benjamin Kushmakov (2025)
К Смерти – Отрывок из стихотворение «Реквием»
Анна Ахматова
Ты все равно придешь. Зачем же не теперь?
Я жду тебя. Мне очень трудно.
Я потушила свет и отворила дверь
Тебе, такой простой и чудной.
Прими для этого какой угодно вид,
Ворвись отравленным снарядом
Иль с гирькой подкрадись, как опытный бандит,
Иль отрави тифозным чадом,
Иль сказочкой, придуманной тобой
И всем до тошноты знакомой, -
Чтоб я увидела верх шапки голубой
И бледного от страха управдома.
Мне все равно теперь. Струится Енисей,
Звезда полярная сияет.
И синий блеск возлюбленных очей
Последний ужас затмевает.
To Death – An Excerpt From “Requiem”
Anna Akhmatova
You will come anyway—so why not now?
I wait for you, it’s so very difficult.
I’ve snuffed the light and swung the door wide
For you, so simple and wondrous.
Assume for this any guise you please—
Burst in like a ballistic shell,
Or sneak up to me like a seasoned bandit,
Or infect the air with typhoid fumes,
Or come with a fairy tale of your own devising,
To everyone, so nauseatingly familiar—
I wait to glimpse the tip of those blue caps
And the pale, fear stricken superintendent.
I care no more now. The Yenisei flows,
The polar star shines,
And the blue gleam of loving eyes
Eclipsed by the final horror.
Anna Akhmatova (1889–1966) was a Soviet poet, one that particularly resonated with me, as my parents were asylum seekers after the collapse of the Soviet Union. They shared with me countless stories—many of which echoed the struggles of loss and grief—and this poem was one of them. I noticed that many online translations didn’t, in my opinion, effectively capture the essence of the poem in English. Hence, I provided my own translation alongside the original poem (albeit, typographically adapted to modern Russian).
For me, there is something harrowingly beautiful about this piece. The simplicity of Akhmatova’s words intertwine with their profound depth. The poem speaks not just of death, but of the waiting—an excruciating anticipation that defined so many lives during the Soviet era, when loss was not an exception but a constant companion. Indeed, I believe this is something that, to an extent, can be applicable to all eras, and many people’s lives. In just a few lines, Akhmatova captures an entire world of experience: a resignation, a defiance, and a determination for love that pushes to persist even as horror, sadness, and grief linger. The poem does not shy away from the pain of death—Akhmatova’s loss of her husbands’ and her only son’s lives—results in her questioning the legitimacy of even her own existence. Despite this enormity of loss, Akhmatova is adamant that life will continue persisting—rivers remain flowing and stars continue shining.
It is a testament to the human spirit’s capacity to face the unimaginable with a kind of terrible grace, to stand at the threshold of suffering and still find something meaningful in the act of waiting, witnessing, and surviving. I hope this piece—with its unembellished take on loss—can provide comfort to those grieving, as it did for me.
Note 1. The “blue caps” are likely in relation to Soviet NKVD (modern-day KGB) attire—those who would arrest (and/or execute) insurgents. At the time, Akhmatova’s first husband, Nikolay Gumilyov, was arrested by the KGB. Her only son, Lev Gumilyov, and common-law husband, Nikolay Punin, were additionally sent to the Gulag by them; she was likely their next target.
Note 2. Building superintendents essentially guided NKVD members to the insurgents within their managed residence. In doing so, they often remained compliant out of pure fear.