Like On Edge of a Wetted Cloud By Anna Akhmatova

Like on edge of a wetted cloud I remember your speech, my sound makes more brighter again your night than the glory of their daylight. And we are out of land, you know, We're so high, like the stars we go. There's no shame, there is no despair Now or latter, of course, I dare And I call you hear all my strive, You're so real and you're so alive. And you opened that door, I can't shut it, I have no strenth for that. P.S. This my translation of poem by Anna Akhmatova, 26 of November 1945.