by Anna Akhmatova （Translated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz）

    And the just man trailed God's shining agent，

    over a black mountain， in his giant track，

    while a restless voice kept harrying¹ his woman：

    "It's not too late， you can still look back

    at the red towers of your native Sodom，

    the square where once you sang， the spinning-shed，

    at the empty windows set in the tall house

    where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."

    A single glance： a sudden dart² of pain

    stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .

    Her body flaked³ into transparent⁴ salt，

    and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

    Who will grieve for this woman？ Does she not seem

    too insignificant⁵ for our concern？

    Yet in my heart I never will deny her，

    who suffered death because she chose to turn

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