Bella Akhmadulina
Sarah Bernhardt

Her tears affected none —
the tears she had not shed.
Against an ostrich fan
her pallid cheek she laid.

Admirers in the stalls
screwed up a handkerchief:
where crimson curtain palls
her hands brought white relief.

They knew how warm the jewel in
her imitation ring
camellia's endless cool in
her white hands wintering.

But how resigned and fleeting
the handkerchief slipped down
how calm the heart was beating
oblivious of the pain.

People forgave it as
the curtain fell afar:
pale yellow rose bouquets
were piled backstage for her.

Holding the roses, scarce
a petal could she see:
down her cheeks ran the tears
dry tears of mastery.

Translated by Keith Bosley, Dimitry Pospielovsky and Janis Sapiets