Bella Akhmadulina
The God

Just because the girl Nastas’ya
ran out barefoot in the rain
to provide another's pleasure
vodka for the aged man

she deserved a lovely god
in a palace drenched with sun
elegant and just and good
in a robe of old gold spun.

But to him where drunkards snore
where all round is poverty
the two blackened icons bore
little similarity.

Just for this the chicory flowered
suddenly the pearls were splendid:
like a church choir then was heard
the plain name of the intended.

He appeared above the fencing
offered her a yellow medal:
this way he was quite convincing
as a god in youthful fettle.

And her heart sang holy holy
for the dulcet light divine
for the blue shirt, for the jolly
concertina, for the wine.

And he lifted off her muslin
kerchief and (deceitful beast)
setting all the hayloft rustling
crumpled up her feeble breast...

And Nastas'ya combed her hair
took the kerchief by its corners
and Nastas'ya in despair
sang with gestures like a mourner’s:

«Oh, alas, you have undone me
you have wrought me many woes
Why oh why did you last Monday
offer me a white white rose!

Willow, willow, do not wither
wait, oh make me not bereft.
All my faith has gone — ah, whither?
Only this small cross is left.»

Through the sunlight laughed the rain
and the god laughed at the girl.
Nothing happened. All was vain.
And the god was not at all.

Translated by Keith Bosley, Dimitry Pospielovsky and Janis Sapiets