Marina Tsvetaeva
Wires. 1. Along these singing lines that run...

1

Along these singing lines that run
from pole to pole, supporting heaven,
I send along to you my portion
of earthly dust.
                        From wires
to poles. This alley sighs
the telegraphic words: I lo-o-ve...

I beg. (No printed form would
hold that word! But wires are simpler.)
Atlas himself upon these poles
lowered the racetrack
of the Gods.
                             Along these files
the telegraphic word: g-oo-oodbye...

Do you hear it? This last word
torn from my hoarse throat: Forg-i-ive ...
Over these calm Atlantic fields
the rigging holds. And higher, higher,
all the messages fuse together
in Ariadne’s web: Retu-u-m...
And plaintive cries of: I won’t leave...

These wires are steely guards upon
voices from Hell,

receding... far into that distance,
still implored for some compassion.

Compassion? (But in such a chorus
can you distinguish such a noise?)
That cry, arising as death comes —
through mounds — and ditches — that last
waft of her — passion that persists —
Euridice’s: A-a-alas,

and not — a —

Translated by Elaine Feinstein