A withered flower lies forgotten
Inside a book, before my eyes:
My soul awakes, all of the sudden,
And I begin to fantasize:
Where did it grow? Among which plants?
How long ago? And picked by whom,
By foreign or familiar hands?
Did it already start to bloom?
Placed here in tribute to a date,
Or to a fateful separation?
Or to a stroll under the shade,
Alone, without a destination?
Is he or she alive today?
Where did they find their hidden nook?
Or did they also fade away,
Just like this flower in the book?
By Alexander Pushkin
Translation by Andrey Kneller