Bella Akhmadulina
The photograph

Smiling nervously but brightly,
conscious of her youth and fame,
she set the way that she was asked to
indifferently — or playing games.

Under heaven's dome's eternal childhood
April nineteen hundred twelve
has promised her in Ospedaletti
only prosperity and sun.

She looks out from a lacy nimbus,
her hands folded in her lap.
The shadow of her future torments
lies locked inside her photo's trap.

Coalesced with that sweet April — 
read Aprille — wet and warm,
like amber that has petrified,
she will abide unharmed.

When the age comes to its end
some late-arriving sleuth will find
that tender, craggy profile preserved
forever in a clot of light.

How calm, facete the well-dressed lady
in whose clear-cut tone and look
the signs of talent show as easy
as the title of a book.

Who asked her for a present of
this dolefule commentary framed
on paper without a pencil mark,
this forehead, and this fringe of bangs?

What's in her portrait for herself?
She gives a shrug: please yourselves!
And paints a picture - Ospedaletti,
April nineteen hundred twelve.

How fresh, still early here on earth!
O morrow, let her have more time!
Wait until she's done, signs «Anna
Akhmatova» on the last line.

Translated by Elaine Feinstein