Marina Tsvetaeva
A Letter

So they don't expect
letters. So they wait for —
a letter.

A ragged scrap
circled
by sticky tape. Inside —

a scribble,
and happiness.
And that’s all.

So, they don’t expect
happiness. So they expect —
the end.

A soldierly
salute, and
three slugs of lead in the breast.

They see a flash
of red. And
that’s all.

It’s not happiness, old girl!
The wildflower color —
the wind blew it away.

A square courtyard
and black gun-muzzles.
A square letter,

ink. sorcery.
When it comes to
death, the

last dream, no one’s
old.
A square letter.

Translated by Denise Levertov