Marina Tsvetaeva
Girl Death

With a milky and even wave
The moon washed the cold parquet.
I sweetly was sleeping under the moon,
To a hot cheek pressing a bouquet.

With light and with sleep doubly disturbed,
I opened the eyes sleepy,
And like a pink angel without wings
The Girl Death leaned to me.

Medallion trembles around the thin neck,
A blush on her cheeks pours,
It's visible, that she ran: dusted
A bit are her bluish shoes.

There's fanciful pattern of golden edge,
A turquoise thread in the curls.
«We'll play on the road, together us two:
You — little boy, me — a girl

Put on (you're the knight) my scarf of lace!»
I silently gave the bouquet...
And with a milky and even cold wave
The moon washed the parquet.

Translated by Ilya Shambat