Anna Akhmatova
In the heart, the memory of the sun fades...

In the heart, the memory of the sun fades,
Yellower turns the grass.
The wind disperses the early flakes
Barely, with each pass.

In narrow channels, water won’t flow —
Cooling, stands still.
Here, nothing will ever happen, I know, —
It never will!

The transparent fan of the willow unfolds
In the empty blue,
Perhaps, it’s best that I’m not, after all,
Married to you.

In the heart, the memory of the sun fades.
What, is everything glum?
Yes, perhaps!... As the night pervades,
Winter will come.

Translated by Andrey Kneller