Harris Khalique (حارث خلیق)
For Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)
For Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)
You died before I was born
to nurse me in the heavens.
On my birthdays you came to prick the fattest
balloons
happiness filled all the empty spaces in my room.
"Son, never let the passion die,"
you held me tight and said quietly.
Those were the days when the sky was lower
crows bit the children who lied
you came to scare them away.
At school I wrote up the stories you whispered
in my ear while others were busy copying down.
I grew up to be a Marxist.
Love convinced you.
They came to hit me once
I shivered in the coldness of their rage
you wrapped a blanket of hope around my neck
and shoulders.
Sleepless when they were not letting me go
you stroked my hair and put me to bed
singing "I am not one of those who left the
land..."
I gazed in your eyes and drowned in the ocean
of dreams.
But like you
I remain a stranger in my own land.
I kissed a girl
you patted on my back with a reticent smile.
Sensed my becoming a libertine
pretended Gumilev was your only love
resigned,
"okay son, but never let the passion die."
It was another sorrowful year when you turned
hundred
the only joy was seeing you in Russia
café on an old street
slill more trees than lamp posts
vodka, steak well done, ice cream.
Time flows, we meet once in a while
your great works, my poems, your son, my loves,
the problems of our times
you lend me a hand when I tremble. .
Fearless, tamed, lustful, platonic, saddened, glad
I didn't let the passion die
though it hurts when love strikes.
Anna, hold me tight again tonight.