That City

This poem started life as a poem in Russian by Anna Akhmatova. I fed it into google translate and used the gobbledygook that came out to write the poem below. I have seen a real translation and it bears no resemblance to my poem. It’s a fun exercise though.

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That City

My favourite since childhood
frivolled away my birthright,
or that’s how it seemed to me,
here, in the dead still of December.

The energy, sound of praying,
the grace of the first song,
all came so easily to hand
as if falling from heaven.

But all this invisible smoke
fizzled out in a hall of mirrors,
and I couldn’t get it back again.
Even the street violinist was no help.

I put it down to the tourists
who ransacked the place, stole its novelty
while I, sounding like a sleighbell,
listened to their weird lingo.

What happened to the wild freshness
that filled my lungs with joy
as each delightful century
climbed with me onto the porch?

[line]