在多云的黑暗中，无趣的阴暗的新月
送给我们的房间其阴冷的闪光。
六套餐具安放在白色的桌子上
它们中空着的--只有一套。
我们等待着--我，我丈夫和我的几个朋友--
就要迎接新年的一刻。
但，就像一剂毒药，把我烧成红葡萄酒，
我的手指--就像浸在血红中。
主人极度严肃，定定坐着，拘谨，
举起他满到边沿的酒杯:
"为我们祖国的土壤干杯，
我们中的每一人都会躺在这儿！“
我的朋友随即大声欢呼，快乐的声音，
而想得有点天真，
”我为她的歌曲，她美妙的歌谣干杯
我们永远住在其中！“
但这第三个人，直到现在我们都不熟悉，我认为，
而他已经闭上了眼睛，
立刻回答了我的疑问，
”我确定我们大家都现在为他干杯，
仍然不能和我们在一起的他。“
In cloudy darkness, the bored crescent-sable
Had sent to our room its grim shine.
Six sets are installed on the white of the table,
And empty of them – only one.
We wait – I, my husband and few friends of mine –
For time the New Year to be met.
But, just like a poison, burns me a red wine,
My fingers – like sunk in blood red.
The host was all solemn, immovable, strained,
While raising his filled to rims glass:
“I drink to the soil of our native land,
In which every one of us lies!”
My friend then exclaimed in a loud, gay voice,
While thinking of something naïve,
“I drink to her songs, to her beautiful songs,
In which we eternally live!”
But the third, which till now hadn’t known, I think,
When He had closed his eyes,
Answered my thoughts at once,
“I’m sure that we all have right now to drink
To him, who isn’t still with us.”
