Marina Tsvetaeva
In Praise of the Rich

None the less — having already warned you
That we stand, you and I, poles apart,
That my place is below with the rabble,
With the saints of this world who sit honoured

In the dust from the wheels of chariots,
At the table of hunchbacks and freaks...
None the less, from the roof of the bell-tower
I declare: I love the rich!

For their root, that is rotting, eroding,
Corrupting the soul in the cradle,
For that air of distractedly dipping
In and out of a pocket.

For the barest murmur from their lips
Obeyed as a sharp command is,
And because, they won't be let into heaven,
And because, they won't look into your eyes.

For their secrets — sent by courier!
For their passions — by errand boy!
For the affliction of nights they must bear with
(They're not kissing and drinking from choice!)

And because, with their pondering, sighing,
Their gilding, soft padding and yawning,
They cannot — in my insolence — buy me,
I insist: I love the rich!

And moreover, in spite of their pampered skin,
Bloated, glutted (they spend in a wink!)
For some sort of — sudden — dejection,
Some sort of look, like a dog's,

Full of doubt...
                        Could the pivot
Have swung to nothing! Are the weights playing up?
And because, among the outcast, disinherited,
None — none are so orphaned in the world!

There is that dreary little fable
About camels going through needles.
...For their gaze, as though deathly shocked,
As they apologize, in sickness

And in bankruptcy... 'I'd lend it to you. Gladly.
Only...'
               For that quiet aside, through pursed lips:
The carats are weighed — our brotherhood sealed...'
I take my oath: I love the rich!

Translated by Mimi Khalvati