Bella Akhmadulina

In those times when e’en brats grew
Into the marks to cities given,
How awfully was slim that Jew,
United Russia with the Heaven!

“It’ll be a sign,” he knew and said,
“To lay the century on my shoulders.”
What can he do? He’s poor and bared
Before the wonder his word moldeth.

His larynx’s opened so wide –
To let pour out the great oration:
What else can the life’s prose find
For cutting some without compassion?

He has the reason for his ‘brag’:
On him the two-fold pain was loomed –
A bard, whose mouth’s fully gagged,
And robbed even of bread, a gourmand.

They say, “O. Mandelshtam liked, most,
The sweetest tarts.” I feel some gladness
For knowing that … But my breath’s lost –
And I want always to be breathless. 

Does that all mean that to create,
With one’s both hands behind one tied,
And to be the unknown dead –
Isn’t plenty for the tortures’ mound?

And in one’s death, to know well
That thirst, so unquenched and childish,
Which had survived e’en in a hell,  
And ne’er just for a moment tarnished?

In my nightmare, in Heaven of mine,
(Where I am hiding him for years) –
He is alive and full, and I                                  
Feed him with tarts ... and pour my tears!


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January 22, 2004