Marina Tsvetaeva
To Moscow. 2. More than a woman...

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More than a woman
at the hour of a meeting!
Laurel-hewn,
red rags,
slashed blood —
snow.

Here they are, close steel cohort,
pinned to the Kremlin wall,
sleeping
in a row.

Laurel — instead of stone
and the Kremlin — rail.
You don’t need
God’s banner.
Honor —
how?

They weren’t honored, “With the Saints.”
They didn’t rest with the Saints.
Laurel.
Snow.

As over the Sacred Heart
the body — keeps guard.
I gnaw my own hands — for even
here,
snow.

Anger. — “Come inside! This, over their own?!”
For this first criminal connection
the hour
beats.

From the tower — which one? — I stand, and think.
That on such an earth,
I step,
I have grown.

I won’t come away! (“Cut off the hands!”)
More than a woman
at the hour of parting

the hour
beats.

Under another rebel’s laurel
my secret passion.

My anger is obvious —
enemy,
sleep!

Translated by Margaree Little