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.
«I'm back at home. My dear land / Is pensive, spreading all around! / The twilight waves its snow-white hand / To greet me from beyond the mound. / / The grizzle of the gloomy day / Is floating by over my home, and / The evening fills me with dismay / Like insurmountable torment. ...»
«Now my grief won't be spilt by the ringing, / Happy laugh of the bygone last. / Lime-tree blossom is fading and dimming / And the nightingale dawns have passed. / / All was new to me then, and emotions / Filled my heart to the brim, so good. / Whereas now every word, kind and cautio...»
«Life is tricky with enchanting pathos / That is why it is so powerful, and / It composes its pernicious letters / With its outrageous, rugged hand. / / When I close my eyes I tacitly declare: / Touch your heart and you will plainly see, / Life is fraudulent, but here and there / ...»
«Both this street and this little house / Have been long so familiar to me. / Up the window the blue straws of wires / Are weighed down as they once used to be. / / There've been years of austere contingency / Years of vehement endeavours, too. / I remember my village, my infancy / ...»