B.Akhmadulina - September, I - Translation (Rus.) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

September
by Bella Akhmadulina

     To Yury Nagibin
I
What is the weather outdoors? However,
No matter is for me such incident  -
In january I live as in september,
Persistently and frenzily.

September, don't draw your wing,
Your wing of the yellow-orange colour,
And, please, postpone your last will,
And your last day - give me linger now.

Wait me a little, don't sleep,
Enveloped  by the will of granting,
And, as in past times, waste your rich,
Indulge all growing trees with a bounty.

What was in real? ! Grass turned strained
In order to green up and nourish,
Then as a copper pipe tree played
And shined above the withered ground.

The front gardens, filled to the brim,
Were tamed and tamed by the assiduous nature,
The dahlia was showing its burgeon,
Sometimes it swooned, again went vegetating.

The crowd of the startled painters
Was looking furtively on the coloured earth.
Compressed, they wiped sweat from their heads
And cried that they were not outlaws,

Cried of not being organizers of commotion,
The red colours were never shed by them,
And as a proof, the poor pallets showed
To everybody, being rather sad.

No, they are surely not guilty of the state,
The boughs change their colours in the autumn,
But all this - colours yellow or red,
Or green - let live forever, though.

How dirty was around, eyes were hitted,
The former colour web was broken!
In this exciting mood - the market did
The prices of the apples lower...