Bella Akhmadulina

There is again a change in Nature,
the green is very rough in sight,
and rises – in a lofty fashion –
the figure of the mushroom, white.

And this old garden itself shows
all living woods and skies above,
and choices of my grace are posed
just on three faces that I love.

The body of the moth, so sightless,
dies in the lamp’s indifferent light,
marks fingers with its golden brightness,
and gives hand the non-pleasance, slight.

Oh, Lord, how in this best of summers,
my soul’s peace is long and great –
thus in a rainbow its colors
forbid one more to be inset.

Like this, a circle, fully ended,
inside it handles itself all,
and uselessness of each touch, added, 
seem as unenvied and droll.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January 26, 2005