I Like That You Are Ill, But Not By Me By Marina Tsvetaeva

I like that you are ill, but not by me, I like that I'm not drowned within your fever, that heavy sphere of earth will never be ran out under the feet of us like river. I like, I can be funny, yes, i do, to be so carefree playing not with phrases, and do not blush with wave of shyness anew in time of touch of our sleeves as blazes. I like, my presence doesn't make you stop to hold somebody else in your embraces, you don't predict me burn without some hope in hell, because I kiss the other faces. That you're my tender do not call my name so tender in daylight and in night hours, that in the silent church the candle flame won't sing us hallelujah with the flowers. I thank you with my heart and with my hand, that you don't know me, but you love me tender for my serenity of night in lonesome bed, for our rare meetings and their splendor. That we don't walk in night under the moon, There's no the sun above our heads, it's *****, that you are ill, alas, not with my tune, that I'm not ill, alas, by you, my dear. P.S. Translation of poem of Marina Tsvetaeva