Innokenty Annensky
Interrupted Lines

This cannot be,
        This is a forgery...
The day was so drawn out and lived to its end,
        Or not lived through but exhausted?..
        This cannot be...
From that very time there has been
Some kind of lump in my throat...
        Nonsense...
This cannot be,
        This is a forgery...
Well, then, I saw her off on the train,
        And returned and am solo, yes!
Her annulated belt was here,
        Her brooch — a star — was lying,
The eternally open handbag
Without a clasp,
And, so infinitely soft,
The little red pillow with lace...
.  .  .  .  .
        The waiting room...
I said something tender.
        We began saying goodbye
Near the clock, by the wall...
        Our lips did not dare to open,
                Stuck together...
We were both absent-minded,
Both so cold,
        We...
Her fingers were in a black mitten.
        Also cold...
“Well, goodbye till the winter,
Only not this one, and not the next,
And not the one after the next...
        You see, dear,
        I am not free...”
— “I know you are in the torture chamber.
        Afterwards
She wept quietly by the wall,
And became paper-white...
        If this wicked game could be ended...
        What else might there be?
My lips wanted to love ardently,
        But in the wind
        They only smiled miserably...
        Something in them was frozen,
        Even dead...
Lord, I hadn’t known
        How plain she was...
But thank God, they were being allowed into their seats..
        Drying her face with a wet kerchief,
        She gave me back this ring...
Once more the cold faces merged,
        As in unconsciousness,
                And
The train still stood there —
        I ran away...
...But this cannot be.
        This is a forgery...
A day or a year is already lived through,
Or not living so long, is exhausted...
        This cannot be...

Translated by R. H. Morrison