Marina Tsvetaeva
Poems about Moscow — 4

The day will come — a sad one, some would say!
There will have reigned, have cried, have shined, have shamed,
— Cured by your pair of double-headed eagles —
My eyes erratical, like flame, and eager.
And – as a twin discovering its twin, —
An aery mask will surface through the mien.

Oh, finally, at last I'll be endowed
With you, serenity's enchanting shroud!

And pilgrims — do I get to see such guests? —
Will, crossing inconsolably their chests,
Stretch, from afar, along a beaten track to
My hand, that won't be bashfully retracted,
My hand, whose guardianship was dismissed,
My hand, that does not anymore exist.

Your — oh, alive ones — kissing lips' persistence
For once — will not be met with my resistance.
For I have been enveloped heel to head
Into serenity's enchanting plaid.
No cause will prompt a blush of mine to blossom,
This is my Holy Easter, saint apostles!

Along the streets of Moscow left behind
We will begin: you — trodding, riding — I,
And more than one will wearily walk off, and
First clods of dirt will fall onto the coffin, —
And finally, at last there will be blessed
That egotistic, solitary rest.

And nothing ever will be needed in it
By Her Serenity lamented late Marina.

Translated by Alexander Givental and Elysee Wilson-Egolf