Marina Tsvetaeva
O, there’s no fastening him...

God

3

O, there’s no fastening him
To your symbols and cares!
He slips through the least chink,
Like the sveltest gymnast...

By drawbridges and
Migratory flocks,
By telegraph poles
God — escapes us.

O, there’s no schooling him
To stay and accept fate!
In the settled muck of feeling
He — is a grey ice floe.

O, there’s no catching him!
Set out on a homely saucer,
God — is no tame begonia
Left to bloom at a window!

Under a vaulted roof all
Waited the judgment of their Master.
Whether poets or pilots —
They all despaired.

Since he’s one on the run — who moves.
Since the great starry book
Of All: from Alpha to Omega —
Is a trace of his cloak, at best.

Translated by Mary Jane White