Marina Tsvetaeva
My shell

Out of the leprosarium of falsity and malice
I have roused you and taken you

Into reveille! Out of the dead sleep of headstones —
Into my hands, here into these palms, both of them,

Shell-like — now grow, be calm:
Grow like a pearl in these palms!

O, neither sheikh nor shah may buy
The private joy and private awe

Of my shell!... None of the beauties’
Hauteur may touch your innermost places

None may appropriate you, like this
My shell-like innermost vault

Of my unassailable hands... Sleep!
Private joy of my longing,

Sleep! Clouding the oceans and shores
Into my shell I take you, as into a mouth:

Right to left and top to bottom —
My shell’s cradling home.

My soul will never give you up to the day!
Your every torment stifled, muffled,

Soothed... As by a clean palm
Cooling and caressing your latent thunder,

Cooling and growing... O, suppose! O, behold!
Like a pearl you will emerge from this abyss.

— You will emerge! — With the first word: be!
My tortured body will make way

Like a shell. — O, wide open, shutters!
For a mother each torture in its season,

In fairness... Provided you escape my captivity,
You’ll need to swallow an entire ocean in return!

Translated by Mary Jane White