Marina Tsvetaeva
Thus swam the head and lyre down...

Thus swam the head and lyre down
To the receding far-off place.
And lips repeated: pity, pity,
And the lyre enounced: «Peace»

Bloody-silver, silver-and-bloody
And double trace she did then pour,
My tender brother, my dear sister
Along the paralyzed Gebr.

At times, the movement of head slowed
Inside the unabated angst.
But lyre assured: do pass me near!
And lips behind her said, «Alas!»

Moving together like a garland
With far-off rippling head of bed —
Do not the hair pour with silver?
Does not the lyre pour with blood?

Thus, with a staircase descending
Of river — into crib of swells.
Thus, to new island, where it's sweeter
Than somewhere — lies a nightingale...

Where then are they, the holy remnants?
The salty wave — respond, respond!
Maybe the net has pulled it out,
Net of bare-headed Lesbian?

Translated by Ilya Shambat