So again we triumph!
Again we do not come!
Our speeches silent,
Our words, dumb.
Our eyes that have not met
Again, are lost;
And only tears forget
The grip of frost.
A wild-rose bush near Moscow
Knows something of
This pain that will be called
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1956)
from Седьмая книга (The Seventh Book)
translation by D. M. Thomas
I still find charm in little accidental
trifles, empty little things –
say, in a novel without end or title,
or in this rose, now wilting in my hands.
I like its moiré petals, dappled
with trembling silver drops of rain –
and how I found it on the sidewalk,
and how I’ll toss it in a garbage can.
by Георгий Владимирович Иванов (Georgii Vladimirovich Ivanov)
translated by Boris Dralyuk