Anna Akhmatova
Three Autumns

The smiles of summer are lost on me,
I find no secrets in winter
But I have observed almost without fail
Three autumns in every year.

The first – a holiday madness
Thumbing its nose at summer
Leaves fly, like pages from notebooks
the smell of smoke is incense-sweet
and everything’s moist, dappled, bright

First to dance are the birches
Throwing on threadbare garments
Shaking off momentary tears
Onto their neighbours over the fence

But this is just the beginning
A second passes, a minute, and then
Comes another, aloof as conscience
As ominous as an air raid

Everything now seems paler, and older,
the comfort of summer cast out
distant marches of golden trumpets
drift in on the fragrant mist

and the cold waves of its incense
cover the high vault of heaven;
but the wind rushes in, the sky gapes wide,
it’s suddenly clear the drama is ending:
this is no third autumn, this is death.

Translated by Mary Besemeres