Nikolay Zabolotsky
The Ugly Girl

The sparse, untidy, ginger-coloured curls
In meagre whisps about her head lie scattered;
Her little blouse is faded, old and tattered.
She looks a freak among the boys and girls
Playing around her, poor, misshapen creature
With crooked teeth and sharp, ungainly features.
Not far away two handsome little lads
Enjoy the bicycles just bought them by their dads.

They ride about with happy turns and twists,
While she runs, after, happy as the boys,
Though they are scarce aware that she exists.
Her heart is filled with other children's joys,
She laughs, their thoughtlessness forgiving,
An ugly little urchin with shrill voice,
In raptures at the sheer delight of living.

No shade of spite nor any evil notion
Has ever found its way into her head.
All in the world arouses her emotion,
All is alive to her which some of us think dead.
And as I look I try to quench the fear
That there must come a day, perhaps quite near,
When all her ugliness the child at last will know,
And life for her will be deprived of joy,
I would not think the heart is just a toy
That can be broken by a single blow;
I still would hope that the unblemished beacon
Which shines within her with such brilliant light,
Will overcome the pain and burn as bright,
Will brgve the worst of storms and never weaken.

Perhaps there is no beauty in her face
To captivate a man 's imagination,
And yet her soul is lit with such a grace
That fills each step with animation.
If she be ugly, what is beauty then?
Why is it worshipped everywhere by men?
Is all its value in the outward form,
Or is it something hidden, live and warm?

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg