Anna Akhmatova penned this poem in memory of Mikhail Bulgakov in March 1940, shortly after Bulgakov’s death. The English translation is from The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, translated by Judith Hemschemeyer, published by Zephyr Press (603-585-3347).
To the Memory of M.B.
I give you this instead of roses on your grave, Instead of the burning of incense; You lived so sparely and, to the end, maintained That magnificent disdain. You drank wine, you joked like nobody else And suffocated between those stifling walls, And you yourself let in the terrible guest And stayed with her alone. And you are no more, and nothing is heard anywhere About your noble and sorrowful life, Only my voice, like a flute, sounds At your silent funeral service. Oh, who dared believe that I, half mad, I, the mourner of perished days, I, smouldering over a low flame, Having lost everything and forgotten everyone— I would have to commemorate the one who, full of strength, And will, and brilliant schemes, Talked to me just yesterday it seems, Concealing the trembling of mortal pain.
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