a translation of Anna Ahkmatova
With Modigliani following me
Through a blue Parisian fog
Looking like a dispirited and
Dispiriting shadow of himself,
I’ve been shaken even in my sleep
By a deep yearning remorse.
Yet for me—his Egyptian woman…
An old grinder’s organ moans
A Paris music that intones underfoot
Like the groaning sea,
He’d imbibed in his shame,
Drunk his fill of grief and hard times.
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