Marina Tsvetaeva
Conversation with a Genius

A weight, on my brow
The laurel of praise.
«I can’t sing, anyhow,»
«But you will.» «The way,

Sound (Transform me
To sawdust, at best!)
Like milk, you see is –
Gone from my breast.

Dry and empty,
At spring’s height:
Feeling’s dead twig.»
«– An ancient cry!

Hush, don’t babble!’
«I’d be better at –
Pounding gravel!»
«Sing, even that!»

«Am I a bullfinch,
Day in day out
To sing?’
«And if you can’t,
Even then, my bird, sing!

To spite the enemy!»
«If I can’t make one
Line come to me?’
«When could, anyone?

«It’s torment» – «Then suffer!»
«A field of dry chaff –
My throat.» – «Then splutter:
That’s sound too – cough!

«It’s a lion’s task, not for
A woman’ – ‘A child’s no doubt:
Though dismembered –
Orpheus still sang out!’

«Even at death?’
– «Under a stone.»
«I can’t sing a breath!»
– «Then make that your moan.»

Translated by A. S. Kline