Marina Tsvetaeva
At night all rooms are black...

At night all rooms are black
Every voice is dark. At night
All beauty of the earth's countries
Are the same — the innocent — the guilty.

And each one talks to the other
At night, the beautiful and the thieves.
Past his house I steal —
Not that it really looks like yours at night!

And your neighbor - strangely unlike,
And on each passing — a knife
And I hang around in impotent rage
Under the huge black trees.

Oh, narrow underground bed
At night, in the dark, at night!
Oh, I'm afraid that I will get up
And whisper, and kiss your lips...

— Pray, dear children, —
For me at the first hour and the third hour.

Translated by Rolf W. F. Gross