Marina Tsvetaeva
As for you i am inclined...

Maternally — in a dream — with my ear.
As for you, I am inclined to rumor,
As is my soul — to your suffering: a fever? yes?
As for you, I am inclined to your face,

Measuring the up — per reaches of your forehead.
As for you, I am inclined to your blood,
To your heart, to the sky,–to islands of languor.
As for you, I am inclined to your rivers,

Your eyelids... As unconsciousness is blessedly inclined
To a lute, as a stairway to gardens, as is a willow
Branch to receding fence-posts and lines...
As for you, I am inclined to all

Your stars — as is the earth (the ancestral bending
Of stars to a star!) — drawn to the banner
Of laurels on the graves of all who suf — fered.
As for you, I am inclined to your wings,

Your sinews... As an owl is drawn to its hollow,
As the pall of darkness draws me forth
To the head of my grave, — years I’ve wanted to go!
As for you, I am inclined to your mouth

As to a spring...

Translated by Mary Jane White