Bella Akhmadulina

The clock’s chiming proclaims fall around:
Harder then in the year that had passed,
And an apple beats the icy ground
In so many as apples are times.

With this music, austere and mind-fashioned,
Who repeats, that time doesn’t stop its roll?
The old gardens, this soldier in action, 
Now seem as inactive at all.

It’s seen better, in Nature, still grievous,
The cognation’s and love’s feature-bliss, 
As if you were no casual witness,
But just one honored guest on her feast.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January 3, 2005