Marina Tsvetaeva
Hands on my Chidren’s Heads

Both my hands gently reach
For the tiny head at my side.
I used to use a hand for each
Of the two that were my pride.

With both hands clutching tight
Using all means no matter the cost,
With the elder one I won the fight
But the younger one I lost.

My two hands I would use
To caress and fondle their locks of hair.
Then overnight I was left to muse
That I no longer needed a pair.

Her bright hair atop a delicate neck,
Like a bright flower one might save!
I still struggle to accept
That my baby’s forever in a grave.

Translated by Robert Crick