Anna Akhmatova
The white house

A frigid sun. From the parade,
The soldiers march away.
I cannot feel my worry’s weight
This January day.

I recognize each branch in sight
And every silhouette.
In awe, I watch the crimson light
Drip through the frosty net.

An off-white house stood here then,
Its porch encased with glass.
That bell-pull in my dead-white hand
How often did I grasp.

How often… Soldiers, do not stop,
Play on, - I’ll find it still,
I’ll know it by its sloping top
And ivy that won’t wilt.

But someone had the house displaced
Into a helpful town,
Or from my memory erased
The roadway to its grounds.

The snow, like cherry blossoms, fell
And bagpipes disappeared…
It seemed to me no one could tell
The white house wasn’t here.

Translated by Andrey Kneller