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Among the other children playing, She reminds me of a little frog. Her skimpy blouse is tucked into her knickers; Her gingery curls tumble in disarray Wide mouth her teeth uneven,, Her features harsh and ugly The two little boys her own age, Have been bought a bike each by their dads, Today they're in no hurry for their lunch; Oblivious of her they hare about the yard, She runs behind them trying to keep up. Their happiness she experiences As her own, her aching heart explodes With it and the girl shouts and laughs With the sheer delight of living. Of envy or malice, this little creature Knows nothing yet. Everything for her Is so immeasurably new, everything Is so alive that's dead for others! And as I look at her, I try Not to think the day will come when she Will realise with horror, sobbing, that She is nothing but a poor plain little thing! I'd like to think the heart's no plaything To be broken in an instant just like that! I'd like to think that the flame Burning brightly deep within her Will of it's own vanquish this pain And melt the hardest stone! Her features may possess no beauty, Nothing to stir the imagination with Still a youthful grace already Informs her every movement. And this being so, what's beauty then, And why do men idolise it? Is it a vessel containing nothing, Or a fire burning brightly in that vessel? Nikolai Zabolotsky Translated by Daniel Weissbort 20th Century Russian Poetry Selected by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

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