Marina Tsvetaeva
P. E. 1. The august day was softly fleeting...

The august day was softly fleeting
Into the twilight’s golden dust.
The noisy streetcars passed by, speeding.
And people passed.

With no intention, absent-minded,
I took the quiet street, alone,
And church-bells sang somewhere behind me
Their quiet song.

I thought of you and I together,
I kept envisioning your pose,
I walked and contemplated whether
To bring a rose.

I kept rehearsing what I’d say.
Alas, I would forget the phrase.
Then — suddenly - to my dismay! —
That very place.

So dreary, lifeless and immense…
There is the door, — I count the floors.
Involuntarily, the hands
Reach for the cross.

I count the stairs on my ascension,
They lead me to some flaming hell.
But there’s no time for contemplation.
I ring your bell.

I felt my arms chilled to the bone.
I heard the thunder, clear and loud.
At last, I called for you. — He’s home,
He’ll be right out.

____

Let everything be gone with time, —
The youthful days that I recall.
I won’t forget what bright designs
Adorned those walls.

I won’t forget those lampshade beads,
And someone’s zealous voices and
Port Arthur’s prints and clocks that beat
High overhead.

The moment was prolonged some more,
And then, I heard your footsteps near,
I heard the squeaking of the door,
And you appeared.

____

At once, I felt a deep attraction.
You bowed, - as simple as a king
Two brown stars, aglow with passion,
Lit everything.

Your squinted eyes were large and warm.
You gazed upon my tender face.
O, if you only saw the storm
That just took place.

I struggled like a hero, fearless.
— O just to think, I tried the broth! —
I can recall your quiet whispers,
Your lips were soft.

I can recall your hair was softer
Than fur, and then, - most dear and nice! —
The wrinkles that arose from laughter
Beneath your eyes.

Forgot it? — I will not forget it,
You sat right there - and I was here.
What strength it took for me to bear it,
To sit so near —

And let out rings of smoke, suppressing
My nervousness and showing peace.
It was becoming so distressing
To sit like this.

We spoke about the letter ‘yat,’
Old alphabet and weather patterns.
Another meal as strange as that
Will never happen.

The lights were dim. I turned around,
And laughing, I surprised myself:
“Eyes of the pure-bred, loyal hound.
— Dear sir, farewell.”

____

With no intention, absent-minded,
I took the quiet street, alone,
This time, no church-bells sang behind me
Their quiet song.

____
Peter Efron: (1883-1914) an older brother of Marina Tsvetaeva’s husband, Sergey Efron, who suffered and later died from from tuberculosis.

Translated by Andrey Kneller