Marina Tsvetaeva
You, measuring me by the days...

You, measuring me by the days —
With me, the hot and homeless one,
Did you walk on the flaming squares
Under the giant, burning moon?

And in the tavern filled with plague,
When solemn waltz a screech did make,
Did you not in a drunken fist
My long and piercing fingers break?

With which voice in my sleep do I
Whisper — you heard? — O smoke and ash! —
What can you know of me, since you
With me did not sleep or get trashed?

Translated by Ilya Shambat