In Memory of Mikhail Bulgakov

This, not graveyard roses, is my gift; And I won't burn sticks of incense:

You died as unflinchingly as you lived, With magnificent defiance. Drank wine, and joked - were still the wittiest, Choked on the stifling air. You yourself let in the terrible guest.

And stayed alone with her. Now you're no more. And at your funeral feast We can expect no comment from the mutes On your high, stricken life. One voice at last Must break that silence, like a flute.

O, who would have believed that I who have been tossed On a slow fire to smoulder, I, the buried days' Orphan and weeping mother, I who have lost Everything and forgotten everyone, half-crazed - Would be recalling one so full of energy, And will, and touched by that creative flame, Who only yesterday,it seems, chatted to me, Hiding the illness crucifying him.

House on the Fontanka, 1940