Marina Tsvetaeva
There’s an hour of the Soul, like the hour of the Moon...

The hour of the soul

3

There’s an hour of the Soul, like the hour of the Moon,
Of an owl — the hour, of mist — the hour, of darkness —
The hour... Hour of the Soul — like the hour of the harp-string
Of David through the dreams

Of Saul... At that hour, tremble,
Vanity, and wipe off your rouge!
There’s an hour of the Soul, like the hour of the storm,
Child, and this hour — is mine.

This hour of the innermost depths
Of my breast. — The breaking of a dam!
Of all things breaking loose from their hinges.
Of secrets — breaking from their lips!

From my eyes — all the veils lift! All tracks —
Lead back! On the ruled staves — not —
A note! Hour of the Soul, like the hour of Troubles,
Child, and this hour — strikes.

As my Trouble! — as you call it.
As when, as if lacerated by
A scalpel, children — reproach
Their mother: “Why do we live?”

And she, with her palm, cools
Their fever: “We need — To lie down.”
Yes, the hour of the Soul, like the hour of the knife,
Child, and this knife — is a blessing.

Translated by Mary Jane White