Marina Tsvetaeva
Poems about Moscow. 9. With a red brush...

9

With a red brush
The mountain-ash burned:
The leaves were falling
And I was born.

Hundreds of belltowers
Argued at least.
It was the Saturday:
John the Baptist.

And in my teeth now
I want to crush
The hot ashberry's
Bitter brush.

Translated by Ilya Shambat