My white-fingered one, my dark princess.
Marina Tsvetaeva
My double and my jester, unseen,
You who hide at the heart of bushes,
Who nestle in the house of the stare,
Who flit among cemetery crosses.
Who call from the Marinkina Tower:
«Here I am, I’m home today.
Cherish me, my own fields,
Because of everything I suffered.
My loved ones lost in the abyss,
My native country despoiled.»
Today we are together, Marina,
Crossing the midnight capital,
With all those millions behind us,
And never a more voiceless crew,
Walking to the sound of funeral bells,
And to the savage, Moscow moaning
Of wind and snow, erasing our steps.
Белорученькая моя, чернокнижница.
М. Цветаева
Невидимка, двойник, пересмешник,
Что ты прячешься в черных кустах,
То забьешься в дырявый скворешник,
То мелькнешь на погибших крестах,
То кричишь из Маринкиной башни:
«Я сегодня вернулась домой,
Полюбуйтесь, родимые пашни,
Что за это случилось со мной.
Поглотила любимых пучина,
И разрушен родительский дом».
Mы c тобою сегодня, Марина,
По столице полночной идем,
А за нами таких миллионы,
И безмолвнее шествия нет,
А вокруг погребальные звоны,
Да московские дикие стоны
Вьюги, наш заметающей след.
«Life goes on, defying common sense. / Old men chatter in the southern sun: / “Moscow ballrooms… The weather in Simbirsk… / The War… Kerensky… We had freedom then…” Before you know it — forty years in France, / a buzzing in the head, chill in the bones. / “Masonic plot…...»
«Should I tell you about all the fools of the world / Who the fate of the entire humanity hold? Should I tell you about all scumbags, dead clowns, / Who pass into history in white crowns? But what for? / ……….It’s quiet under a Paris bridge, / I don’t care if after me there’s the»
«What about people? What do I need them for? / Here is a man pulling a bull, / A saleswoman with legs and breasts galore, / a kerchief, thighs round and full. Nature? For what reason? / Snow or rain or heat is mingling / With angst in any season, / Like a mosquito’s jingling. There ar...»
«With this inhuman fate / How can one argue? How can one fight? / This is mirage, illusion. / Still this blue evening yet / Is my domain, possession. And the sky is red between the trees / While it is pearly on the sides… / In lilacs the nightingale still whistles. / The ant crawls i...»