Withered

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? 

The flower by Alexander Pushkin
Translated by Andrey Kneller