【明報專訊】I'm sitting in a quite cafe. It's drizzling outside but the transparent curtain of light rain nevertheless blurs the shapes of the people on the street. I enjoy the harmless inaccuracy. In my hand rests a handy copy of the English translation of Anna Akhmatova's collected poems. It's no accident as I deliberately carry it out this morning on the advice of a friend, a learned one who has recently been convicted of an offence for joining a peaceful but unauthorised rally. She told me softly but determinedly that I shall read myself Akhmatova's Requiem, especially its opening prose. I don't want just reading it to myself. I want to read it to your ears: