Nobody came to meet me
with a lantern,
Had to find my way up
the steps by weak moonlight
And there he was, under
the green lamp, and
With a corpse’s smile
he whispered, ‘Your voice
Is strange Cinderella…’
Fire dying in the hearth,
Cricket chirping. Ah!
someone’s taken my shoe
As a souvenir, and with
lowered eyes given me
Three carnations.
Dear mementoes,
Where can I hide you?
And it’s a bitter thought
That my little white shoe
will be tried by everyone.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1913)
– from Четки (Rosary, 1914), translation by D. M. Thomas
