Marina Tsvetaeva
A Horn Like Roland’s

I tell the tale of my isolated, orphaned state
elliptically,
as a sensitive hunchbacked court jester
might allude to his cruel deformity.

Behind every prince is his royal clan;
behind every seraph, all the rest
of the heavenly host;
behind everyman, thousands like himself
so he knows that if he staggers back
he’ll be stayed by a living wall.
And should he fall, thousands are ready
to take his place.

A private stands tall, knowing
he represent a regiment;
a demon’s proud of that dark legion
he’s part of; the thief
always knows he can disappear
into a rabble no better than he,
and the afore-mentioned court jester,
in a weird way,
knows he can count on his hump.

Thus, ultimately weary woman that I am,
I hold on by sheer force of conscious will,
my steadfast finger points because there’s yet direction,
and I fight forward, bent down against a headwind
of ignorant whistles and liberal, educated laughter,
one out of so many, and for the many most
when going against the many.

Thus Roland, with his lost, last battalion
in that crag passage through the Pyrenees
held out against a whole jihad
so the Muslim horde, though by it he died,
should not pass into France.
Roland blew his almighty horn,
standing there terrific, petrific, immobile
as a stone colossus, roaring loud
as a jet plane for take-off
that fly from there he never would —
a call through the unenthralled and empty heavens,
the fire alive in his chest the pledge
that there would somewhere
a Charlemagne hear you, horn!

Translated by Seraphina Powell