By Irina Odoyevtseva

How still the moon is in the mirror,
As if into the mirror grown.

Beneath the moon appears a face begrieved,
Appears a finger, wearing an engagement ring. 

The guest room, younger sister bawls:
To her this wedding nothing good forebodes.

- What happened, Asya? Why have you awakened?
- Ah, Zoya, out to Paris won't you take me!

Out through the windows an autumnal garden shakes, 
Up in the attic, some rat poison stays.

And there's a game this pair of sisters play
And neither of the sisters, in the end, can win this game. 

All feasted at the wedding, there was mead enough,
The mead was flowing, dripping past the mouth.

A year of Zoya's life.

Her final one.