Marina Tsvetaeva
You pass me by as you stroll...

You pass me by as you stroll,
I don't touch your hand at all.
But my angst is eternal yet,
That you be the first I met.

Heart said "Darling!" out of control,
I forgave you it all,
Knowing nothing — not even the name!
Love me, love me, I exclaim.

From the curve of your lips with one glance
I see their forced arrogance,
By above brows jutting out:
This heart storms, no doubt.

With a black silk armor — dress,
Voice with gypsy hoarseness,
Until pain I love all things in thee,
Even that you are not a beauty.

Beauty, in summer won't wilt!
Not a flower — you're a stalk made of steel,
Meaner than mean, sharper than sharp, I say,
From what island were you born away?

With a rod you do wonders, with a fan —
In each bone and in each vein,
In the form of each finger full of rage —
Woman's tenderness, boy's courage.

Parrying all ridicules with verse
I open for you and the Universe
All that's ready in you, fine one,
Stranger with forehead of Beethoven!

Translated by Ilya Shambat