And the candles are melting Out to the aged parquet. The rain runs down shoulders Like silver off epaulets. In a frenzy there fizzles The golden champagne. Let the past fly away, Iím not one to complain. In a premortal anguish with a back-looking glance, The scared stags bound forward Toward the deadly advance. Someone points his long barrel At the innocent breast... Let bygones be bygones, Come what may, if itís best. With a heartless abandon A clever hunter takes aim With razor-sharp arrows Into the sunsetís red flame. In the tempest of sound A sad note then began. The past leaps and bounds, Come what may, if it can.
© de Cate + Navrozov. Translation, 1995