Bella Akhmadulina

Has not been heated to the white,
Yet it is whitening with its heaven –
Night o’er Neva. The mind is stiffened
With sadness and the young delight.
When the first beam of the morn light
Will be crashed ‘gainst the dome, golden,
And Summer nears Its Garden’s trees –
What other grants, what other bliss
Can we else ask this life to ordain? 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, February 3, 2004