Marina Tsvetaeva
Silhouette at the Station

I do not know you and do not want
Our meeting to wipe away illusion
With a face like this in worse abysses
One is still faithful to the starlight.

Everyone marked by fate
Has their face closed.
You, a page in a book still unread
And never you can turn a slave.

A slave, with a face like yours? Oh no!
There is no chance. I know:
To many your slender figure and glance
Would carry mystery within.

The heavy ring of hair falling
From under the scarf, thrown over
(A guitar or a harp would suit you)
And the pallor of your face.

I do not know you. And perhaps
You are like others, nice and mediocre…
So let it be! And what I see is delirium!
But only through delirium I live.

And maybe the day is not too far
And I will face what is unsightly…
But being wrong brings such a joy,
To be mistaken feels so easy.

And scarcely holding onto your scarf
At the edge of the anxious whistles’ hum,
You were standing, an austere enigma.
I will remember you — that way.

Translated by Erika Kleijmans