Nikolay Zabolotsky
Football

A forward rejoices on the run,
where's there now for him to hide?
since his bones give no protection
to his body opened wide.
His soul flies like a cape,
his collar bone loudly clangs
against the clasp fixed on his cape,
the membrane in his ear bangs,
the grape dances in his throat,
and the sphere flies over a tier.

They seize him now at random,
and offer him a poisoned potion,
but their heels contain an iron venom
that’s a hundred times more potent.
Retreat!

They fall down in a heap,
swollen from the wind and heat;
then across squares and open spaces,
the snow, the rivers, and the sea,
its splendid armor-plating straightens
and arcs towards infinity —
the sphere descends.

A forward, his joy is all ablaze,
his iron knees are screwed on,
but from his throat a fountain plays,
he falls down crying: Treason!
The sphere spins between the walls,
laughing, smoldering, it swells,
one eye winks — good night!
one eye blinks — good day!
the forward’s torment is in sight.

Four goals fall in a row,
trumpets don’t blare any more,
a melancholy goalie keeps the score,
his rag erases as they go,
and he cries the night. Night comes soon.
Jingling like a diamond-studded screen,
a black key is inserted
into the atmospheric moon —
a hospital is seen.
Alas!
The forward sleeps here
without his head.
Over him two copper lances
bind the stubborn sphere with string,
water off the gravestone glances,
falling on the chiselled ring,
and in his throat the grape dries up.
Sleep, O forward, in reverse!

Sleep, poor forward, sleep!
Above the earth
the setting sun falls in the deep,
and girls dance with the sunset
by a blue-tinged rivulet;
wallpaper fades inside the room
of a little lilac cottage,
and each day mama’s in her dotage...
Sleep, poor forward!
We live on.

Translated by Christopher R. Fortune