Marina Tsvetaeva
Disciple. 6. To Thee, all the fanfaring splendor...

To Thee, all the fanfaring splendor
of trumpets is no more
than the inarticulate whisper
of wind in the grass;
to Thee, the roaring glory of storms
is as the chirping of birds,
the beating of whose wings
has as much magnificence
and as little significance
as our heartbeats hastened
by the pressure of the past —
the century-heavy terror of time —
the horror of history. 

Translated by Seraphina Powell