Marina Tsvetaeva
Yesterday he still looked in my eyes...

Yesterday he still looked in my eyes, yet
today his looks are bent aside. Yesterday
he sat here until the birds began, but
today all those larks are ravens.

Stupid creature! And you are wise, you
live while I am stunned.
Now for the lament of women in all times:
— My love, what was it I did to you?

And tears are water, blood is water,
a woman always washes in blood and tears.
Love is a step-mother, and no mother:
then expect no justice or mercy from her.

Ships carry away the ones we love.
Along the white road they are taken away.
And one cry stretches across the earth:
— My love, what was it I did to you?

Yesterday he lay at my feet. He even
compared me with the Chinese empire! Then
suddenly he let his hands fall open, and
my life fell out like a rusty kopeck.

A child-murderer, before some court
I stand loathsome and timid I am.
And yet even in Hell I shall demand:
— My love, what was it I did to you?

I ask this chair, I ask the bed: Why?
Why do I suffer and live in penury?
His kisses stopped. He wanted to break you.
To kiss another girl is their reply.

He taught me to live in fire, he threw me there,
and then abandoned me on steppes of ice.
My love, I know what you have done to me.
— My love, what was it I did to you?

I know everything, don’t argue with me!
I can see now, I’m a lover no longer.
And now I know wherever love holds power
Death approaches soon like a gardener.

It is almost like shaking a tree, in time
some ripe apple comes falling down. So
for everything, for everything forgive me,
— my love whatever it was I did to you.

Translated by Elaine Feinstein