Anna Akhmatova
At the new moon, he walked out...

At the new moon, he walked out,
The friend I loved. I’ll be okay!
“Tightrope dancer,” He joked loud,
“How will you survive till May?”

As to a brother, I replied then,
Without gripes or jealousy,
But four new cloaks just aren’t likely
To replace this loss for me.

Let there be danger where I walk,
The way of grief fills me with dread…
The bottom of my shoes are chalked,
My Chinese parasol shines red!

The orchestra plays gleefully,
And lips are smiling with delight,
And yet the heart, the heart can see
The fifth lodge is unoccupied. 

Translated by Andrey Kneller