Bella Akhmadulina

Oh, Stranger Day, don’t stay on those pinky hills!
Don’t let the dawn deform your features, so attractive. 
Why did you condescend to my and pits’ appeals?
I recognize you there. Urbino’s your land, native.

Oh, Holly Day, go back to Italy of yours,
There’s still a winter here, and our men make a trouble,
A jealous hunchbacked dwarf, I look at you, quite lost,
And kiss tails of your garb – quite serious and humble.

So, is it not enough – the pocked cheeks and lungs?
To add, the silly brush and paints, despising orders.  
Oh, Day-Perfection, pray go away at once!
Our shepherdess conceals a knife under her bodice. 

But kindly looked at us the godlike Day, again.
And brothers told mid them: “Brother, please meet my bow!”
And aft the hundred years, the Day of Our Saint,
For three our hamlets, poor, had passed without a row.

Unmarked, had gone away Day-Light, Day-Raphael…
But flourished the dead oak amidst the plaintive vastness,
And over our heads, the blissful sunset spelled,
And pilgrims crossed themselves at ruins in the darkness.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January 31, 2004