Marina Tsvetaeva
You look like me — looking down...

You look like me — looking down;
Your eyes on the graveyard lane.
I, too, kept my eyes on the ground;
Please stop and read my name!

Pick poppies and verbena:
They grow here wild with sage —
And read my name, Marina,
Along with two numbers — my age.

Don't think that I will appear
With rancor when you arrive....
I want you, while you are here,
To think of me breathing, alive!

With blush on my cheeks so tender,
With my tresses in a golden crown....
You know: I often surrendered
To laughter when others frowned!

Stop and taste the flesh of wild berries
Hiding shyly under your feet:
Where else but in cemeteries
Do strawberries grow so sweet?

Looking down, don't feel any torment;
Don't let sorrow sadden your day;
Lightly think of me for a moment,
Lightly let this thought fade away.

The sun is caressing your body,
Your hair is blown by the breeze...
— May you not find my voice disturbing
Corning from underneath.

Translated by Olga Dumer