From Odessa (to Petersburg)






A frosty sun. From the parade ground
More and more soldiers keep coming.
I am happy, this January noon.
And my troubles are few.

Here I remember each twig,
And every silhouette. Raspberry light seeps
Through the frosty white net.

There was a house here, almost white, 
And a sun porch.
How many times my dead-white hand
Held the bell pull.

So many times...Soldiers, play on, And I will look for my house,
I'll recognise it by its sloping roof,
Its everlasting ivy.

But someone has carried it off,
Taken it to another town,
Or torn from my memory forever
The road that leads there.

The sound of the bagpipe dies down,
Snow flies, like cherry blossoms...
And it's obvious nobody knows
That the white house is gone.

(A. Akhmatova)


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