Marina Tsvetaeva
To Grandmother

An oblong, tight oval —
Your black dress's taper...
Young grandmother! Who kissed
Those haughty lips of yours?

Hands that played Chopin's waltzes
In the household's rooms...
Curls, tight like spirals,
Hang at the edges of an icy face.

Dark, forward and sophisticated stare.
A stare showing ready defenses.
Young women do not stare that way!
Young grandmother, who are you?

How many opportunities have you taken,
And how many impossibilities?
Into the insatiable abyss of the land,
The polka of your twentieth year!

The day was innocent and the wind was fresh.
The dark stars had gone out.
Grandmother! — This fierce rebellious spirit
In my heart — do I get it from you?

Translated by Robin Kallsen