Текст песни Ахматова - Не с теми я, кто бросил землю

Not with those I who threw the earth
At the mercy of the enemy .
Their gross flattery I did not give ear,
They are songs of his I did not give .

But I always miserable exile ,
As a prisoner , like a sick man .
Your dark road, a stranger ,
Wormwood smell bread stranger.

And here, in the dense fumes of fire
The residue is ruining youth
We are a single blow
Do not deviate from themselves .

And we know that in the assessment of late
Justified is one hour ...
But there are no people in the world tearless ,
Haughty and easier to us.