Anna Akhmatova
Three Autumns

I simply don’t notice the smiles of summer
And of the winter I fail to unpick the secrets
But I have spotted almost without error
Three autumns each and every year.

And the first is a holiday mayhem
To spite the summer of yesterday
The leaves fly like tattered notebooks
The smoke smells incense-sweet
And all is moist motely and gay.

Birches are the first to join the dance
Attired from head to toe
Hurriedly shaking off their passing tears,
On the neighbour over the fence, and so

It happens that the story has merely commenced
One second, a minute, and well, what more to say
Except that the second autumn has come, silent
Like conscience; dark and gloomy like an air raid.

Suddenly all is paler and older
Raided is summer’s comfort
The golden trumpets of distant marches
Float in through the mist, fragrant and cold.

The high vault of the heavens is
Shrouded by the cold waves of incense
But suddenly the wind burst, the skies open
And it’s clear: the drama is ending, and
This isn’t the third autumn, but death.

Translated by Subhash Jaireth