Marina Tsvetaeva
The cry of station

The cry of stations: don't go!
Of terminals: take pity!
And that of the brief stops:
Not exactly Dante's
Benediction:
"Abandon hope!"
And that of the engines.

Whose iron shuddered
Like the thunder of an ocean wave.
At the tiny ticket-window,
It crossed my mind — they traffic in space?
In seas and dry land?
In perishable meat:
We are meat — not souls!
We are mouths — not roses!
From us? No — over us
The wheels carry off our loved ones!

At such and such miles per hour.

Tiny ticket-windows.
Little dice of passionate chance.
One of us was right,
Who said: love — will stun the life out of you!

"This is life — on the rails! Don't cry!"
Rights of way — easements — rights of way...
(Owners reluctant to look into the eyes
Of their horses bound for slaughter).

"Unbroken and seamless, there is
No such happiness. Did I really buy it like that?"
The dressmaker was right, who held
Her tongue about it: "Use cross-ties."

Translated by Mary Jane White