I flew easily over the stairs,
Though I felt cold and helpless inside.
Afterwards I discovered to wear
My left glove on the right hand that night.
Final footsteps lasted for ages,
But I knew: stairs were only three.
Then a whisper from autumn maples
Asked me tenderly: “Die with me.
My misfortune capricious and weird
Has betrayed and resulted untrue.”
I replied to him: “Yes, my dear.
Mine the same. I will die with you.”
Song of Love was accomplished there.
I looked up at the gloomy house:
From the bedroom the candles stared
With their yellow indifferent eyes.
17 февраля 2010
Оригинал: «Песня последней встречи» А.Ахматовой