Nothing I counted mine, out of my life,
is mine to take:
not my daughter's terrible eyes,
not the elaborate stone flower
of grief, not the day of the storm,
nor the trial of the visiting hour,
not the dear coolness of her hands,
not the magnolia trees' agitated shade,
not the thin cricket-sound
of consolation's parting word.
–adapted from Anna Akhmatova's "Requiem"
