Marina Tsvetaeva
Sahara

Young men, don’t ride away! Sand
stifled the soul of the
last one to disappear and now
he’s altogether dumb.

To look for him is useless.
(Young men, I never lie.)
That lost one now reposes
in a reliable grave.

He once rode into me as if
through lands of
miracles and fire, with all
the power of poetry, and

I was: dry, sandy, without day.
He used poetry
to invade my depths, like those of
any other country!

Listen to this story of two
souls, without jealousy:
we entered one another’s eyes
as if they were oases —

I took him into me as if he were
a god, in passion,
simply because of a charming tremor
in his young throat.

Without a name he sank into me. But now
he’s gone. Don’t search for him.
All deserts forget the thousands of
those who sleep in them.

And afterwards the Sahara in one
seething collapse will
cover you also with sand like sprinkled
foam. And be your hill!

Translated by Elaine Feinstein