Anna Akhmatova

In cloudy darkness, the bored crescent-sable
Had sent to our room its grim shine.
Six sets are installed on the white of the table,
And empty of them � only one.

We wait � I, my husband and few friends of mine �
For time the New Year to be met.
But, just like a poison, burns me a red wine,
My fingers � like sunk in blood red.

The host was all solemn, immovable, strained,
While raising his filled to rims glass:
�I drink to the soil of our native land,
In which every one of us lies!�

My friend then exclaimed in a loud, gay voice,
While thinking of something na�ve,
�I drink to her songs, to her beautiful songs,
In which we eternally live!�

But the third, which till now hadn�t known, I think,
When He had closed his eyes,
Answered my thoughts at once,
�I�m sure that we all have right now to drink
To him, who isn�t still with us.�

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January, 2002