Bella Akhmadulina
Soda water

There he comes up to soda water booth
As if it were a real clockwork toy,
An arrogant sophisticated boy,
A favourite of slot machines, like youth.

Then, the conceited fantasist first-class,
Inserts a coin into the slot, and putting
His cheek to tender splashes softly shooting,
The fountain he catches with the glass.

Oh, how I wish I had his self-esteem
And simple secrecy of familiarity!
No, I do not deserve such act of charity;
Let it get spilled beside me in a stream.

Meanwhile the kid, concerned with marvel,
Carries the glass of seven facets in his palm,
And the reflection falls upon the gravel,
And badly hurts, without meaning harm.

A bit afraid, I join the game at last,
And with a blissful feeling, seeing the risk
I yield to the temptation of the disk,
My heart stops beating, and I take the glass.

Then, livening up from silver chains, a pool
Comes into being, emerging sweet and salty,
Filled with the breath of unfamiliar quality
And multitude of bubbles, fresh and cool.

The rainbows which came out, all the better,
Transfix the sky in momentary sweetness,
And now with tickling, gentle and solicitous,
The tongue tries all the seven tastes of spectre.

The soul of the machine, so dark and drab,
Looks in a kindly outmoded fashion, and
Like peasant woman, cool-headed and dispassionate,
Might give a wanderer to drink from wooden cup.

Translated by Alec Vagapov