Marina Tsvetaeva
- I wrote in school, with chalk upon the slate..., by Andrey Kneller
- I wrote on paled leaves of the fan..., by Ilya Shambat
«I don’t know, I can’t explain... / Do I love or do I die? / Is it a dream or is it Verlaine? / Is it spell or a prison cell? Either the torment of the ideal / Or the beauty’s torment / Is spilled in the whole world / From a broken goblet. The dream might be wrong as well / Whe...»
«The din dies down. I enter from the wings. / Leaning inside the doorway to the stage, / I try and catch an echo in the distance, / A sense of what shall happen in my age. Thousands of theater glasses focus on me, / Turning on me the darkness of the night. / If it be in Thy power, Abba ...»
«I told her: the sidewalks are muddy, / The sky is gloomy, everyone is depressed... / I said that days are all the same / And make me sick at heart, / That balls, the theater — get on my nerves... / “Really?” I told her there’s cholera in the city, / So-and-so have pa...»
«Nothing but anniversaries, anniversaries... / Our liter reeks like a kitchen! / To judge by it, all Russia / Is teeming with great men: / After their deaths, it’s certain. / Following magnificent empty sanctimonies, / A hundred Pantheons / And a hundred Westminster Abbeys won’t suf...»