Marina Tsvetaeva
Letter

They don't wait for letters,
For a letter they wait.
A shred of rag
Around a braid
Of glue. Within — a word.
And happiness. And this - is all.

Thus they don't wait for joy,
Thus they wait for the end:
A soldier's salute
And into the chest — lead
Three pieces. It's red in the eye.
And this is it. And only.

No happiness — she's old!
Wind blew — color!
The black muzzles
And the yard's square.

(The letter's square:
Of ink and spells!)
No one is too old
For sleep of death!

The letter's square.

Translated by Ilya Shambat