Marina Tsvetaeva
To Victims Of School Dusk

Branches, early and dear,
Earth's pride and joy,
Children, sad children,
O, why have you gone away?
Your unheard moan of anguish
Disturbs the promised thoughts.
How much the newspaper pages
Cover the names unheard!..
Lips, now made numb,
Quietly whisper: “Not that...”
To trust in death, the brave ones,
What made you, what?
Horror of thoughts unheralded,
Question that burns and torments,
Thirst for feats unprecedented
Or lighting's portents —
Sleep in enchanted peace! And
Death is good — at sunrise!
We'll remember you on the feasting,
Storm-mighty bonfire.
Are the ones walking to death right?
Will it be dark? Even so,
This will be known by the coming,
It is not given to us to know.

Translated by Ilya Shambat