“You are with me once more, Autumn my friend!”
Let any, who will, still bask in the south
On the paradisal sand,
It’s northerly here – and this year of the north
Autumn will be my friend.
I’ll live, in a dream, in a stranger’s house
Where perhaps I have died,
Where the mirrors keep something mysterious
To themselves in the evening light.
I shall walk between black fir-trees,
Where the wind is at one with the heath,
And a dull splinter of the moon will glint
Like an old knife with jagged teeth.
Our last, blissful unmeeting I shall bring
To sustain me here –
The cold, pure, light flame of conquering
What I was destined for.
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1957)
from Седьмая книга (The Seventh Book)
translation by D. M. Thomas