Marina Tsvetaeva
In Praise of the Rich

Herewith, having warned you beforehand
That between us is many miles' space,
That I am one of the riff-raff,
And in life have an honest place:

Under the wheels of all excesses,
Host to hunchback and cripple, queer fish...
Herewith I shout from the rooftops,
Declare it — I love the rich.

For their root that is rotten, decrepit,
From the cradle growing its wound,
Their hands moving in unconcious habit
From their pockets, and to them returned.

For the softest requests that their mouths make,
Each obeyed like an ordering cry,
And because they won't get into heaven,
And won't look you straight in the eye.

For their secrets — by special delivery,
Their passions — by courier post,
For their nights, which are foisted upon them,
(Even kissing and drinking are forced!)

And because in their cotton-wool yawning,
Their gilding, their counting itch
They can't buy me, impudent upstart,
I affirm that I love the rich.

Never mind that shine, of the shaven,
That wined, dined look (I wink and it's mine),
It's that sudden look of the craven,
Those eyes with their doggy shine,

Doubting...
                 are the scales set at zero?
Are the weights not perhaps loaded short?
Because of all the world's outcasts
These are the sorriest sort.

An unpleasant fable informs us
How some camels pass through needle eyes.
...For their look of «To death I'm astonished,»
As they plead their infirmities

Like bankruptcy. «I'd have lent...Been glad to»
...For their quiet words, mouthed with a twitch:
«I counted in carats, was a brother...»
I swear it: I love the rich.

Translated by David McDuff