Marina Tsvetaeva
How comes into the middle...

S. E.

How comes into the middle
In battles of the Don —
Thus my dream is with you
In cities over the ocean.

For the paper dust they'll take
Bookcase from the wall.
All's for sale, and nonetheless
Memory's not for sale.

In a green wood full of firs
There's no such straight pine.
You and me, that is because,
From one cradle come.

Not for thousand fates — we're born
For one, you and me.
Nearer than bread to the palm —
Thus do we agree.

Fire and flood did not bear off
Finger of gold made!
In those sleepless hours we are
Nearer than to forehead, hand.

My widowhood will not accept
Neither miller, nor flour.
An inviolable bond:
In one crib we were.

In my chest my watch, once wound,
Did not rust, you know.
There's autocracy within
The red Russia, know.

May the whole world come to end —
At night service I will stand.
Thus with you before the wall —
As to others with a garland.

And now, keen before me, you!
Brothers, do not yawn!
Thus together we come at night:
Our crib was one.

Translated by Ilya Shambat