Marina Tsvetaeva
My days are awkward and absurd...

My days are awkward and absurd:
For bread I'm begging from a poor,
While alms I offer only to a rich.

I thread a needle by the ray,
To a burglar I suggest the key,
And pallor, I by ceruse only bleach.

But all these efforts are obtuse:
The poor and reach, they both refuse,
The ray is always missing needle's eye.

The burglar enters with no key.
Again in vain I spent my day
And, silly woman, I'm reduced to cry.

Translated by Vladimir Gurvich