Анета 1995
Translated by Genia Gurarie © 1996
ANNETTE
Good news is not in store, the nasty here it comes: Annette has fallen in love.
All day the dwellers may not share in this aloud, but every eye's asquint.
None had it first or second hand, nor could one anyhow, but clear to all:
As is, in love -- call that no cataclysm! -- and then the steady fog all day.
Next door a flutist fed his ruined reed to flames: Annette has fallen in love.
What good is now the Turkish March, what kind of novelty the Treble Clef?
Just take a plaything from the suede, a little firmer press, and break it up!
One time a shapely rush, a master's action later -- ashes, ashes now.
Rough in the capital this day: the weeds, the wheelbarrows, the copper clang...
Dead lay the despot -- look, the city's full of tears. Annette has fallen in love.
That God should hither have delivered! what a city, really, I'm amazed:
Seventh deceased in seven years -- get used to it! and still they're shedding tears.
Come in, wayfarer, be my guest, sit down, at once I'll have a beaker served.
This ball we've got, a free-for-all, what can you say -- Annette has fallen in love.
Small hope she'll ever have it in with me through all the season while I'm here,
And all the smaller when I there will be, alas, where I shall be anon.
What can we do -- rough day, in weeds, in arms, in fog more fair the other time...
Back then, at least, a whistle of reed was in the air, and now the copper clang.
Look at those birds of mine: they're frozen in their cages, making not a sound.
Who is the thrush and who the chaffinch? ask -- I wouldn't have the answer now.
Wayfarer, wasted me, disinterested me: Annette has fallen in love.
See those two goblets, best we have, take either one, but drink so far alone.
Wine has no taste to me, down weighs the fog, the city's mourning all year round.
Poor, poor Annetta... Poor the flute!-- though what's a flute? a former rush, no more...