Marina Tsvetaeva
Poems to Blok. 15. Without word, without call...

15

Without word, without call —
Like a thatcher from the roof falls.
And again, possibly,
You come — in the cradle you lie?

You burn and don't dim,
The light of several weeks..
Which of the mortals
Rocks your crib?

The blessed heaviness!
Singing chestnut that prophesies!
Oh, who will tell me
In which cradle you lie?

"So far it's not sold!"
With jealousy in my head
With a great detour
I'll walk the Russian land.

The midnight countries
Will go from end to end.
Where's the mouth, his wound,
His eyes' bluish lead?

Take him! Hold tightly!
To love him and love him only!
Who will whisper to me
In which cradle you lie?

Pearly grains,
Muslin shade full of sleep.
Not laurel but thorn —
Sharp-toothed shade of a cap.

Not angel, but bird
Opened two white wings!
And to be born once again,
That snowstorm again blew in?!

Tear him! Hold tightly!
Just don't give away! Hold high!
Oh, who will breathe to me
In which cradle you lie?

And maybe false is
My feat, and my labor futile.
How you're put in the ground,
Maybe - you'll sleep till trumpet call.

The giant indenture
Of your temples - catches my sight.
Such an exhaustion —
Can't be lifted even with pipes!

The country pasture,
Rusty, quiet reliably.
The janitor will show me
In which cradle you lie.

Translated by Ilya Shambat