I finished my book of Akhmatova's poems the other day, and it feels a bit inappropriate to dismantle the poetry with analysis. Suffice it to say, what I read will stay with me for a while. This is the kind of poetry I enjoy reading, without feeling the need to take it apart and pick through the possible meanings contained within it. (In fact, the version I own has brief introductory material from Akhmatova herself for one of the poems; she essentially says she isn't going to offer the reader any interpretation: "I shall neither explain nor change anything. What is written is written.")
I'll honor that and just provide the last lines to the final poem in the book, Poem without a Hero (written between 1940 and 1962). It was intended to remember those who died in the Siege of Leningrad, as well as those who later perished in the labor camps of Siberia.
I don't know about you, but I think this can stand on its own without any further analysis or explanation:
And under my eyes unravelled
That road so many had travelled,
By which they led away my son.
And that road was long -- long -- long, amidst the
Solemn and crystal
Of Siberia's earth.
From all that to ash is rendered,
Filled with mortal dread yet
Knowing the calendar
Of vengeance, having wrung her
Hands, her dry eyes lowered, Russia
Walked before me towards the east.
From Anna Akhmatova: Selected Poems (trans. D.M. Thomas)
Year of publication: 2006
Number of pages: 147