Marina Tsvetaeva
That same youth, and these same holes...

That same youth, and these same holes,
And the same nights at the fire...
Sister of your own guitar
Is my divine, holy lyre.

To circle souls just like a snowstorm —
One is the gift that us befalls.
Into my sleeping crib is lowered
This title: Stealer of souls!

Breaking the arms in angst, you know:
Not one alone in the day's fog
With poison gypsy broth of parting
The young noblemen you do drug.

Know: not alone on the sharp knife
You look with anguish in your blood
Know, I'm alone still... we are sisters
In the great lowliness of love.

Translated by Ilya Shambat