On the Road

A land not our own
and yet eternally memorable,
and in the sea there is tender-iced
and unsalt water.

On the bottom-sand whiter than chalk,
and air as drunk as wine,
and the pink mass of the pines
laid bare in the sunset hour.

The sunset itself in the ethereal waves
is such that I cannot tell
if this is the end of the day or of the world,
or the secret of secrets is within me again.

--Anna Akhmatova (tr R McKane)