Marina Tsvetaeva
Two hands, lowered, touching lightly...

Two hands, lowered, touching lightly,
Resting on an infant’s head!
Two small heads were once beside me —
One for every hand.

But from utter darkness– grueling —
Fierce — and not to be outdone! —
I, with both, the eldest pulling —
Couldn’t save the younger one.

My two hands — to stroke — to pat
Locks of hair, so light and airy.
My two hands — and, just like that,
One became unnecessary.

Golden — on her skinny neck —
Like a dandelion crowned!
I have not learned to accept
That my baby’s in the ground.

Translated by Andrey Kneller