Marina Tsvetaeva
Meeting

The evening mist appeared above the town,
Submissively, the trains sped through the haze,
Clear as the petals of anemones, a face
Flashed in a window, youthful and round.

A shadow on her eyelids. Like a crown,
Those golden curls… I hushed myself, amazed:
I understood that with our moans, we raise
The long deceased from underneath the ground.

In valley of my dreams, I’ve often greeted
— An apparition in the crowded station —
This youthful lady by the window seated.

But why was she so sad on this occasion?
What did this silhouette seek out and why?
Was she not happy — even in the sky?

Translated by Andrey Kneller