Marina Tsvetaeva
To Byron

I think of the dawn of your glory,
Of the dawn of your days,
When you awoke from sleep as a demon
And a god for mankind.

I think of the way your brows
Were knitted above the torches that were your eyes,
And of the ancient blood that, like lava,
Flowed inside your veins.

I think of your fingers, very long,
And your wavy hair,
And all those eyes that thirsted for you
In the alleys and the living rooms.

And of the hearts, much too young,
That you had no time to read,
At those times when the moons came out
And extinguished your honor.

I think of the barely lit room,
Of the velvet, merging with the lace,
Of all the verses, which seemed to say
You are mine, and I am yours.

I think also of the handful of dust,
The meager remains of your lips and eyes...
Of all the eyes that are buried in graves.
Of them and of us.

Translated by Robin Kallsen