Marina Tsvetaeva
Good Tidings. 5. In the name of massacre...

5

In the name of massacre
Hold tight, my one with wings!
There was an hour of crossing
And will be — of getting even.

In that ton-and-half hour
Between fact and dream
Heavily paddled
The ship's wings.

Between Charybdis — yes! —
And Scylla paddled away.
Oh my wings,
The ships-cranes!

Then on the steep
Shore of Euxene
Stomped those who escaped,
Will — those who win.

In that hour exhausting
Between mud and muzzle
The wings did not weaken,
The hearts did not chill,

The shoulders were pressing,
In guard eyes remained.
O these wings of mine,
The ships-cranes!

Not given to offend
Narrow-faced little birds,
It was said — a she-eagle's
Heart of Taurides.

With many a letter
Onto cry long-beaked
The gray-haired Monarchian
Mom did awake.

And here's the Sofian
Cupola — far away...
O these my wings,
The ships-cranes!

Bear! Dark constellation
Will shiver up high.
The vengeance will come
Not from sea, from the sky.

Look: having been poured
With lead of heaven,
The flock of ships
Is menacing, heavy.

And there is no end to it,
There is no land...
O these my wings,
The ships-cranes!

Translated by Ilya Shambat