Nikolay Zabolotsky
Soccer

The forward exults on the run.
What does it matter to him now!
Not for nothing is his body
Arched as it hurtles on.
Like a cloak, his soul streams out behind,
His collarbone knocks loud against
The fastening of the cloak.
The membrane dances in his ear,
In his throat grapes dance.
And the ball flies over the row.

It’s snatched up at random,
Given a dose of poison,
But the iron venom of the heels
Scares it a hundred times more.
Back!

The backs have gone into a scrimmage,
Billowing with the draft,
But toward him, over sea and river,
Wide spaces, squares, and snowy wastes,
Setting its splendid armor straight
And listing into its meridian,
Soars the ball.

The forward’s soul’s on fire,
His knees clash like steel,
But already a fountain’s spurting from
His throat, as he falls, crying “Foul!”
And the ball spins between walls,
Steams, swells, screams with laughter,
Winks, shouts: “Good night!”
Opens an eye, bellows: “Morning!”
Its object to torment the forward.

Four goals come in a row,
No fanfare sounds for them,
The melancholic goalkeeper
Counts each one and wipes the slate,
Then calls for night. The night arrives.
Clanking the diamond cover,
It inserts a black key into
The atmospheric aperture.
The hospital opens up. Alas,
Here sleeps the forward, headless.

Above, two copper lances
Bind with cord the stubborn ball.
Sepulchral water flowing off
The slab drips into cut-out holes,
And the grapes wither in the throat.
Sleep, forward, back to front!
Poor forward, sleep!
Above the earth Falls the deep glow of evening,
Maidens dancing with the sun
Setting beyond the pale blue stream.
Peacefully in the lilac house,
The wallpaper fades as before,
Mother grows older day by day.
Poor forward, sleep!
We’re still alive.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort