Written by
Marina Tsvetaeva |
Children - are staring of eyes so frightful,
Mischievous legs on a wooden floor,
Children - is sun in the gloomy motives,
Hypotheses' of happy sciences world.
Eternal disorder in the ring's gold,
Tender word's whispers in semi-sleep,
On the wall in a cozy child's room, the dreaming
Peaceful pictures of birds and sheep.
Children - is evening, evening on the couch,
In the fog, through the window, glimmer street lamps,
A measured voice of the tale of King Saltan,
Mermaid-sisters of seas from tales.
Children - is rest, brief moment of respite,
A trembling vow before God's eyes,
Children - are the world's tender riddles,
Where in the riddle the answer hides!
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Written by
Marina Tsvetaeva |
The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold,
In the self as in a cell.
The world is but walls.
The exit's the axe.
("All the world's a stage,"
The actor prates.
)
And that hobbling buffoon
Is no joker;
In the body as in glory,
In the body as in a toga.
May you live forever!
Cherish your life,
Only poets in bone
Are as in a lie.
No, my eloquent brothers,
We'll not have much fun,
In the body as with Father's
Dressing-gown on.
We deserve something better.
We wilt in the warm.
In the body as in a byre.
In the self as in a cauldron.
Marvels that perish
We don't collect.
In the body as in a marsh,
In the body as in a crypt.
In the body as in furthest
Exile.
It blights.
In the body as in a secret,
In the body as in the vice
Of an iron mask.
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Written by
Marina Tsvetaeva |
Much like me, you make your way forward,
Walking with downturned eyes.
Well, I too kept mine lowered.
Passer-by, stop here, please.
Read, when you've picked your nosegay
Of henbane and poppy flowers,
That I was once called Marina,
And discover how old I was.
Don't think that there's any grave here,
Or that I'll come and throw you out .
.
.
I myself was too much given
To laughing when one ought not.
The blood hurtled to my complexion,
My curls wound in flourishes .
.
.
I was, passer-by, I existed!
Passer-by, stop here, please.
And take, pluck a stem of wildness,
The fruit that comes with its fall --
It's true that graveyard strawberries
Are the biggest and sweetest of all.
All I care is that you don't stand there,
Dolefully hanging your head.
Easily about me remember,
Easily about me forget.
How rays of pure light suffuse you!
A golden dust wraps you round .
.
.
And don't let it confuse you,
My voice from under the ground.
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Written by
Marina Tsvetaeva |
"I will not part! -- There is no end!" She clings and clings.
.
.
And in the breast -- the rise
Of threatening waters,
Of notes.
.
.
Steadfast: like an immutable
Mystery: we will part!
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Written by
Marina Tsvetaeva |
These are ashes of treasures:
Of hurt and loss.
These are ashes in face of which
Granite is dross.
Dove, naked and brilliant,
It has no mate.
Solomon's ashes
Over vanity that's great.
Time's menacing chalkmark,
Not to be overthrown.
Means God knocks at the door
-- Once the house has burned down!
Not choked yet by refuse,
Days' and dreams' conqueror.
Like a thunderbolt -- Spirit
Of early grey hair.
It's not you who've betrayed me
On the home front, years.
This grey is the triumph
Of immortal powers.
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Written by
Marina Tsvetaeva |
In the sweet, Atlantic
Breathing of spring
My curtain's like a butterfly,
Huge, fluttering
Like a Hindu widow
To a pyre's golden blaze,
Like a drowsy Naiad
To past-window seas.
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Written by
Marina Tsvetaeva |
In the old Strauss waltz for the first time
We had listened to your quiet call,
Since then all the living things are alien
And the knocking of the clock consoles.
We, like you, are gladly greeting sunsets,
And are drunk on nearness of the end.
All, with which on better nights we're wealthy
Is put in the hearts by your own hand.
Bowing to a child's dreams with no tire.
(Only crescent looked in them indeed
Without you)! You have led your kids past
Bitter lifetime of the thoughts and deeds.
From the early age the sad one's close to us,
Laughter bores and home we left behind.
.
Our ship not in good times left the harbor
And it sails by will of every wind!
Azure isle of childhood is paling,
On the deck of ship we stand alone.
It appears, oh mother, to your daughters
You've left an inheritance of woe.
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Written by
Marina Tsvetaeva |
Whence cometh such tender rapture?
Those curls--they are not the first ones
I've smoothened, and I've already
Known lips--that were darker than yours.
The stars have risen and faded,
--Whence cometh such tender rapture?--
And eyes have risen and faded
In face of these eyes of mine
I'd never yet hearkened unto
Such songs in the depths of darkness,
--Whence cometh such tender rapture?--
My head on the bard's own breast
Whence cometh such tender rapture?
And what's to be done with it, artful
Young vagabound, passing minstrel
With lashes--to long to say.
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