To Mikhail Bulgakov (Памяти М.А.Булгакова Анна Ахматова)
Instead of dying roses,
Instead of incense flame,
My voice for your harsh time
To praise the crown of disdain
You wore throughout your life.
You were the one to taste your wine, to joke with thrill,
To suffocate from stiff immured air.
You did that welcome gesture
To let Her in -
You stayed with Her alone and forever.
Now you're gone, there's not your tune
About grieving and courageous living,
These are my sounds of sole flute
Are heard on tribute feast in stillness.
Who ever dares to trust to crazy me,
Me, mourning on the days demising,
Me, smoldering on sluggish grill of hell,
An orphan, losing everything in darkness,
Still has the memory of your majestic nerve,
Your bright intentions and that stoic option,
You seem to have that fancy talk to me
Restraining agonizing shake of torment.
