This Final Autumn

This final autumn - not a line, not a sigh.
Final songs have fallen with the summer.
A farewell fire of the epoch burns out,
And we are watching the shadows and the lights
This final autumn.
This final autumn.

An autumn hurricane swept jokingly away
Everything that choked us in the dusty night;
Everything that pushed, played, glittered,
Torn apart by the aspen wind
This final autumn.
This final autumn.

Ah Alexander Sergeevich*, dear,
Why have you told us nothing
Of how you held, searched, and loved?..
Of how that final autumn you knew.
That final autumn.
That final autumn.

Hungry sea, hissing, gulped down
The autumn sun, and, behind the clouds,
You will no longer remember what has been;
You will not touch the dusty grass with your hands…

Poets walk away into the final autumn,
And you cannot bring them back - the blinds are nailed shut.
The rains only remain, and the icy summer;
Love remains, and the stones that rose from the dead.

(*Reference to Pushkin (link?))