Marina Tsvetaeva
My Country

Rummage with your torches
All the moonlit night!
Charted are land’s porches —
But it’s lost from sight.

Lapped up from the saucer —
Gleams the bottom glazed.
Can you go back ever
To the house they’ve razed?

Second birth’s requirement,
Land renewed must lead.
Don’t resist allurement —
Ride that bucking steed!

Get back on, you faker!
Aren’t those bones still whole?
Such a guest, the baker,
Sells a broken roll,

Yet won’t joiner heartless
Coffin to her sell!
Country there of countless
Versts, of heavens’ realm,

On whose filthy lucre
Etched is my youth’s sigh.
Finished is old Russia.
Vanished, as have I.

Translated by Rupert Moreton