Yaroslav Smelyakov
You fair ladies of this russian land

With the stage lights in a dizzy whirl,
Juliet dies, no more than just a girl.

Festive tiers and boxes dare not move,
as the fair Ophelia pleads her love.

All arrayed in spangles gold and blue,
Cinderella dances into view.

Women seated in the darkened hall,
not one poet has mentioned you at all.

Those weren’t fairy caverns where our wives
tried their Army helmets on for size.

Not in Perrault’s gardens did you toil,
scattering cinders on the Urals soil.

Under shelters, on long stretchers lying,
Russia’s fair princesses lay a-dying.

Grieving for the nation, silently
stood the grim machine-gun crews nearby.

Army issue coats and shoes you shed,
donned civilian clothes and shoes instead.

Soon with silks and satins we’ll adorn you,
precious sable coats and wraps shall warm you.

Palaces we’ll build you, fine and grand,
you fair ladies of this Russian land.

We shall write you many a composition
full of heartfelt love and admiration.

Translated by Alex Miller