Anna Akhmatova
The memory of sunlight as something warm...

The memory of sunlight as something warm
fades from my heart.
The first frost has already yellowed
the green from the grass.
The wind is playing, just barely,
with a few flakes.

The water in the narrow canals
is already motionless, frozen.
Nothing moves. Nothing will change.
Not ever.

The willow spreads its leafless branches
against empty sky,
like a transparent fan.
If I’d never become your wife, perhaps
things would have been better.

It’s hard to remember now how warm
the sunlight felt.The temperature drops.
Maybe its evening coming on. Sometimes
it seems like winter arrived overnight.

Translated by Seraphina Powell