Sleep on wooden boards in the sun

I will quietly in the churchyard

Sleep on wooden boards in the sun,

On the Sunday as guest to mother

You will come, my dear one --

Through the river over the mountain

Can't catch up to grown ones

From afar, the sharp-eyed fellow,

This my cross you'll recognize.

I know, dear one, very little

Can you now recall of me:

Did not scold you, did not fawn you,

Did not hold the cup to thee.

Anna Akhmatova