Marina Tsvetaeva
Life train

If not a bayonet — then a tusk, a snowbank, a squall, —
On the hour, another train — to Immortality!
I came and knew one thing: it's just another stop.
And not worth unpacking.

Upon everyone, everything — my indifferent eyes,
Come to rest — on the immemorial.
O how natural to enter third class
Through the closeness of the ladies' rooms!

Where after warmed-over cutlets, cheeks
Are grown cold... — Can't we go further,
My soul? I'd sooner go down a streetlamp's drain
To escape this deadening discord:

Of end papers, diapers,
Red-hot curling irons,
Scorched hair,
Women's hats, oil cloths,
All the eau-de-Col — ognes
Of families, the joys
Of sewing (Mere trifles!)
Is there a coffeepot?
Crackers, pillows, matrons, nannies,
The closeness of nurseries, and baths.

I don't want to be in this box of women's bodies
Waiting on the hour of my death!
I want this train to be drinking and singing:
Death — too, belongs in another class!

In a daze, a stupor, on a concertina, in distress, in vanity!
— These unbelievers do cling so to life! —
Prompting some pilgrim or other to say: «In the next world»...
So I interrupt to say: it must be better!

A platform. — And sleepers. — And a last shrub
In my hand. — I let loose. — It's too late
To hang on. — Sleepers. — I'm tired
Of so many mouths. — I look to the stars.

So through a rainbow of all the vanishing
Planets — did someone at least number them? —
I look and see one thing: another end.
And not worth regretting.

Translated by Mary Jane White