Marina Tsvetaeva
You — After a Hundred Years

To you, having been born
A century too late, a breath —
From the depths — convicted to die —,
His hand — writing:

— Friend! Do not look for me! Another fashion!
I do not remember even the elderly.
— By mouth you didn't get it! — Across Lethe's water
I put out two hands.

Like two fires, I see your eyes,
Burning at me from the grave — in hell —
I see that your hands do not move,
You died a hundred years ago.

In my hand — almost a handful of dust —
My poems! — I see: in the wind
You are looking for the house I was born in — or
In which I died.

The women at the counter – those are alive, happy,
I am proud how you eye them, and catch their words:
— A gathering of imposters! All of you are dead!
She alone is alive!

I served her ministry voluntarily!
All the secrets she knew, her collection of rings!
Grave robbers! These rings
They were stolen!

Oh, a hundred of my rings! I worked hard,
Sorry for the first time,
Later they were at random bestowed on me, —
You did not wait!

And it is sad for me, that on this evening,
Today — I had so long followed
The setting sun — and I meet
You — after a hundred years.

I bet that you'll dump your curse
My friends in the darkness of their graves:
— All give praise! Rose-pink dresses
Nobody was given presents!

Who was disinterested? — No, I'm selfish!
If you cannot kill, — nothing to hide
What have I got for all my begging letters,
One goodnight kiss.

Should I tell you? — I'll say! A nonentity – convention.
To me you are now — a passionate horror among the guests,
And find yourself a pearl of a mistress
In the name of your — bones.

Translated by Rolf W. F. Gross