The Script On a Book. Anna Akhmatova

From under what deaf ruins I speak rhyme, 
From under what an avalanche cry out: 
Like I am burning in the white quicklime
Under the volts of chambers underground.

I’ll simulate a winter, mute and lost,
And close, fast, the ever opened entrance,
But they will hear my alone voice,
And trust in it will be their final sentence.

Anna Akhmatova